


Proxy

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Drama, Erotica, M/M, Public Sex, Slash, The Quidditch Pitch: The Changing Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-07
Updated: 2008-03-16
Packaged: 2018-10-27 14:57:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 162,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10811307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: Ron’s role in Harry’s struggle with Voldemort puts unexpected pressure on Bill.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes:

This is a serial, updated about once a week...just a friendly heads-up for people who prefer to read finished pieces.

Betaed by [Brumeux77](http://astele.co.uk/TheQuidditchPitch/Chapter/Details/viewuser.php?uid=1234)

* * *

Harry Potter stood at midnight at the end of the Dursleys’ walkway. A note had come earlier that day, from Dumbledore no less. Harry had recognized the looping, spidery hand he’d first seen on the note pinned to his father’s invisibility cloak his first year at Hogwarts. “At precisely 12:05, young man,” the note read and the letters seemed to twinkle at him in the same way Dumbledore’s eyes had often twinkled at him, “an old friend will arrive outside your guardians’ home. You will no doubt recognize his mode of conveyance. Times being what they are, however, have your wand at the ready and do not hesitate to use it should anything go amiss.”

Harry’s fingers curled tightly around his wand. He looked at the note again. “At precisely twelve oh five…” Suddenly the “0” in the 12:05 turned into an eye and winked at him. Harry’s left eyebrow quirked, as did the left side of his mouth. Perhaps a winking letter was Dumbledore’s way of reassuring him. Letting him know that at the moment things were fine and that the old Headmaster would not be keeping his distance from Harry the way he had during the boy’s fifth year at Hogwarts. Still…

Harry glanced up. He’d heard something, a rumbling in the distance. He checked right and left, his Seeker’s eyes quickly taking in the street. Empty. Folding the letter, he stuffed it in his back pocket. The rumble rumbled again, steady and growing louder.

Harry checked his watch. Twelve oh five, this must be his ride. He lifted his wand just in case.

The rumbling noise was now quite loud, the mechanical growl of a lorry or even a train. Dumbledore wouldn’t be sending the Hogwarts Express to Privet Drive, would he? Harry glanced left and right again, the street was still empty, lamplight puddling softly on the pavement. In the sky, the moon was high, a small wedge away from being full ( _it_ _won’t be Remus coming, then,_ thought Harry). The wind moved through trees heavy with mid-summer leaves. Suddenly, there were two enormous bangs, like gunshots, and the rumble blossomed into a full-on roar. Harry, who had nearly jumped out of his skin at the explosions, put his hands over his ears.

Now a dog barked, let loose a long trembling wail. The hair rose on the back of Harry’s neck. A second dog howled, its voice higher, mixing eerily with the first voice. Another dog chimed in, with snarling barks and wet snaps, then another and another. Suddenly, it seemed as if every dog in Privet Drive were belling, yapping, barking and howling. Harry stuffed his fingers in his ears, wand dangling near his chin. Between the roaring and the barking, he thought he’d go deaf.

It only got louder.

The front door of the Dursleys’ home banged open, smashing into the side of the house. “WHAT THE RUDDY HELL IS GOING ON OUT HERE?” Uncle Vernon’s voice boomed over the commotion. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ALL THE DOGS, IDIOT BOY?”

BAM!

At that precise moment, something huge and loud dropped out of the sky and bounced to a landing right in front of Harry. Harry stepped back, stumbled over his trunk, which he’d hauled to the edge of the street with him. He fell backwards, overturning Hedwig’s cage.

Harry heard a strangled cry, and the slamming of a door. He couldn’t help grinning as he imagined Uncle Vernon beating a hasty retreat back into the house, all his chins wobbling and his little mouth in an upside U of dismay. Hedwig shrieked furiously as lights came on up and down Privet Drive.

“WHAT WEIRD THING HAVE YOU GOT GOING ON OVER THERE NOW, DURSLEY, YA FAT FREAK!?” shouted a voice. Harry laughed out loud. The Dursleys wanted nothing more than to be to most admirably normal family in Privet Drive, maybe in the whole wide world. In the past sixteen years, Harry had had his chances to blow that hope to smithereens.

He rolled quickly behind his trunk, lifting his wand at whatever had fallen out of the sky. Five years of being the Dark Side’s Most Wanted had given Harry hair-trigger reflexes, not to mention a rather large chip on his shoulder. If this was Voldemort or one of his cronies, Harry wasn’t going down without a fight. He found, however, he wasn’t particularly frightened. For one thing, his scar wasn’t burning, not even stinging. And for another, he didn’t seem to feel much of anything these days—not fear, not sorrow, not hope, not even hatred. It was Sirius’s death, he knew, coming on top of Cedric’s and everything else that had happened during his fourth and fifth years at Hogwarts. He’d have to deal with it all sooner or later, Harry knew, but later would do. And much later, would do even better.

He could see now that the thing that had dropped out of the sky was a rather large motorcycle. Harry pointed his wand at its rider’s heart.

The blank face of a black helmet turned toward him. The rider twisted one hand on the bike’s handlebars and the rumbling noise cut in half. The dogs were still howling like mad, of course, but they weren’t loud enough to drown out a familiar voice.

“Don’t shoot.” The rider held up both hands. It sounded like he was laughing. “Mum loves you, but she’d flip if you turned me into a toad.” With that, the rider swept the helmet from his head and a mass of hair tumbled down. In the muted light of the streetlamp, Harry could see the hair was red, Weasley red.

“Bill!” Harry said, shocked. While he hadn’t known who was coming for him (Mad-Eye? Mr. Weasley? Hagrid?) he certainly hadn’t expected to see Bill Weasley.

“Hullo, Harry,” said Bill, grinning. He kicked the bike’s stand down and dismounted. “Ready to go?” He put both hands on Harry’s shoulders, gave the boy a friendly shake.

“WELL, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?” Harry turned to see Uncle Vernon standing with the door open again, a narrow slice of Aunt Petunia peeking from behind his bulky form. Dudley, Harry thought, was no doubt upstairs frantically wedging his fat bum under a bed. “GET OUT OF HERE ALREADY!” Uncle Vernon’s voice shook with rage. “BEFORE I CALL THE POLICE!”

“I ALREADY CALLED THE POLICE, ON YOU, YA GIT!” shouted an angry voice. Harry looked up the street. All of Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia’s neighbors were out on their stoops, hanging out of windows or standing at open doors, clutching dressing gowns closed and gawking with the kind of interest that made the vein in Uncle Vernon’s forehead throb. The dogs barked madly and a cat squalled and shot across the street. Harry saw Arabella Figg standing in the street as if she’d also been informed of the exact moment of his departure. She waved merrily. “Have a nice term, Harry dear,” she called.

“All right, Harry?” Bill said, running his hand through his mop of hair. “The Muggle police are coming, so let’s head out, right? We haven’t much time. This all your stuff?” The tall redhead pointed at Harry’s trunk, Hedwig’s cage and the Firebolt.

“That’s the lot,” said Harry.

“Right.” Bill looked thoughtfully up the street. “We’ll need to shrink it but Dad made me promise not to do any obvious magic in front of the Muggles.” He turned to grin at Harry. “Said he was tried of doing memory charms on Privet Drive.”

Harry grinned back. “Well, you didn’t have to drop out of the sky, did you? And did you use a Sonorous to make the bike louder than a freight train?”

“Erm, no.” Bill looked a bit sheepish. “The muffler dropped off just I was coming into town. I grabbed at it and missed, bloody thing went right through somebody’s skylight. I was a bit distracted then and almost missed your house. Anyway, I’m here.”

“I’m glad to see you, Bill, I really am.” The words were out before Harry realized he’d spoken. He was startled by a sudden warmth flooding his chest. He put his hand on his heart; it was almost uncomfortable.

Bill’s handsome face lit up. He ruffled Harry’s hair. “I’m glad to see you too, kiddo, but we’d best be off. Just a little diversion first, give your nosy neighbors something else to look at.” The redhead gestured with his hand. Suddenly, the large twitchy Alsatian from two doors down shot out into the street as if it had been jerked on strings. It skittered around wildly for a moment under the streetlamps, its hindquarters going in a circle. Then it leapt in the air like a fish leaving the water.

“What the…” said Harry.

“That was a sideways Summoning spell,” said Bill. “And this…(a flick of his wrist and something small bounced out of the street, making a fizzing sound)…is a little something the twins came up with…Canis insanus. Humans can’t smell it but dogs can. Makes them mental. Check it out.”

With his mouth hanging open, Harry watched as every dog in Privet Drive came barreling out to join the Alsatian. They shot through their owners’ legs, they jumped backyard fences, they leapt from open windows, over hedges. They met in the middle of the street, howling, prancing sideways, leaping each others’ backs to keep from colliding.

“Come back, Muffy!” “Toodles! Twiddles!” “Here, Girl!” Voices rang out as the Dursleys’ shocked neighbors called after their dogs. Uncle Vernon swore, stepped back. Aunt Petunia yelped, sounding a lot like one of the dogs; Harry supposed her heavy husband had trod on her foot. “GOOD RIDDANCE!” howled Uncle Vernon and the Dursleys’ front door slammed once again.

“Lovely man,” Bill said wryly. “Don’t know why you ever leave…well, let’s get on, Harry, this stuff only last about three minutes.”

He handed Harry three tiny objects—his school trunk, the Firebolt and Hedwig’s cage shrunk down to toy size. “Stick these in your pockets.” Harry tucked the trunk and the Firebolt into his shirt pocket. He glanced at Hedwig’s cage expecting to see a tiny owl glowering at him. Instead the door was swinging open. There was a white flash and Harry looked up to see Hedwig mounting the air. He slid the cage in with his trunk and broomstick and stuck his wand in the back pocket of his jeans.

Bill pulled him around by the shoulders and placed a helmet on his head, knocking his glasses askew. “Crap.” He lifted Harry’s face shield, adjusted his glasses and snapped the shield back in place.

The helmet made Harry feel oddly top-heavy. He turned his head and stumbled, almost falling over again. Up and down the street he could see his neighbors running, calling after their dogs. The dogs feinted and dodged, leapt like kangaroos. If Harry was not mistaken, some of them seemed to be fornicating. The neighbors chased here and there in billowing gowns, slapping slippers. It was a bit like a circus clown show, Harry supposed, not that he’d ever been to a circus. He shrugged into the leather jacket Bill handed him and watched as the redhead replaced his own helmet, threw one long leg over the motorcycle and settled himself onto the seat. Harry clambered up behind. He wrapped his arms tightly about his friend’s waist and leaned into his broad back. Bill gunned the engine and they leapt forward.

“Goodbye, Harry dear,” Mrs. Figg called faintly as they roared away. Bill was laughing, Harry could feel the vibrations through his back. Harry felt the uncomfortable warmth burning his chest again. Harry pushed it down, as best he could. It was a feeling, after all, and at the moment, feelings were not his friends.

They were flying now. Harry sat behind Bill, resting comfortably against his friend’s broad back, arms lightly about his waist as they soared high above the dark countryside. Harry glanced down, here and there he could see nests of lights, villages he supposed, and occasionally they sailed over the oblong headlamps of a car traveling on some country road. Bill hadn’t spoken to him since they’d roared away from Privet Drive, except once to shout back, “Ready?” when they’d made the outskirts of Little Whinging. Harry had nodded, the big helmet slipping about on his head. Bill had killed the bike’s lights, gunned the engine and the motorcycle had lifted into the air.

Bill leaned over the bike, one hand on the handlebars, the other on his hip. He now reached back and patted Harry’s thigh. Harry sighed and let his head fall against Bill’s back, suddenly weary. Of all the wretched summers he’d spent at the Dursleys’ house, this had been by far the worse. The Dursleys had ignored him completely, they hadn’t even bothered to feed him this time. Not that Harry had cared. He couldn’t imagine anything more revolting than watching Uncle Vernon and Dudley cram their holes while his own stomach felt like a hot sack of bile. He had ignored the Dursleys as thoroughly as they had ignored him, staying up in his bedroom, sleeping all day and only coming downstairs when he knew the family was asleep. He cooked for himself, when he remembered to eat, showered when he noticed himself stinking and washed his linens when he noticed the oily imprint of his own body on the sheets. He supposed he was a bit in shock.

Every night he took Hedwig downstairs on his shoulder and fed her tidbits from the Dursleys’ refrigerator. Then the two of them went to the front door which Harry opened to let his owl fly out into the night. While he waited for her to return, he sat on the stoop and practiced his Occlumency, breathing deeply and forcing the churning thoughts from his mind. He found he did a far better job alone than he ever with Snape. Now that he thought about it, the Occlumency was probably the only thing that had kept him sane this summer. The few times he’d looked in the mirror, he’d been surprised. True, there were shadows under his green eyes and a shock of his black forelock had turned white. But on the whole, he looked pretty much as he’d always looked. Somehow, he’d expected to look broken, like a Muggle soldier he’d seen once in a book belonging to Hermione. The soldier had been flung on his back in the mud by some sort of explosion. His chest was open and his innards spilling messily forth. He was like a trunk from which someone had hastily pulled contents. Wet meaty bits on his chin and stomach, a broken rib protruding like a crooked finger. In the photo, the soldier had been staring at his torso, glassy-eyed, surprised, perhaps, to be so thoroughly damaged and yet still breathing.

Harry knew he couldn’t be that soldier, not with what he had behind him and with what he had in front of him still to do. So he sat on the Dursleys’ steps every night, taking deep breaths and building walls. He dangled images of Sirius in his mind until he could bear to look without weeping. In his mind, he forced himself to pull the curtain aside to see Sirius, impaled and squirming on a spike, chasing his own decapitated head, Sirius, Death Eaters cutting out his tongue, using his eyes, his balls for Snitches. Sirius, burning in Muggle hellfire flames, in agony, shrieking Harry’s name. Harry imagined, breathed and built walls.

Bill squeezed his thigh and pointed downward. Harry felt the bike tip and go into a dive. They were dropping out of the sky and it felt something like falling on his broomstick. He held tightly to Bill, knowing his friend would know just when to pull out of the dive.

Bill did. He pulled the bike’s nose up just in time: its wheels skimmed over the ground, touching once, twice, then settling on a dirt road before rolling gently to a stop.

Harry slipped off the back and took off his helmet. His ears rang and his head felt light enough to float away.

Bill got off too and leaned the bike on its heavy kickstand. He shucked his helmet and came to stand next to Harry. “Let have a proper look at you, then,” he said. “ _Luminaros_.” A ball of light appeared in his hand and Bill set it to hang in the air.

Looking at Bill Weasely in the pale glow of the magicked light, Harry felt his stomach suddenly roll. Before he knew what he was doing, he had sunk to his knees and put his head in his hands.

“Oh, Harry,” said Bill, softly. He knelt beside Harry, put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Has it been so hard?”

“No,” Harry choked, embarrassed. “Really. Not until I saw you.” He felt weak all over and realized he was shaking. “Sorry.”

“Don’t say that.” Bill squeezed his shoulder, reassuringly. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Harry wanted to put his hand on top of Bill’s, but he couldn’t. That was thing about walls, you could keep some things out, but not everything. Harry knew a time would come when the walls he’d built so carefully with his Occlumency would crack, but maybe they’d hold long enough for him to put something else in their place.

Slowly his shaking ceased and Harry could breath deeply once again. “I’m okay now,” he told Bill.

Bill held on to his shoulder a bit longer. “If you ever need to talk…” he said. He suddenly laughed. “Remember I’m kind of an expert.”

“An expert?” Harry looked up at him, wondering.

“Yeah. I’ve got five younger brothers, you know. They come to me when it won’t do to go to Mum or Dad.” Bill grinned and rolled his eyes. “There have been times that I swear I’ve felt like a Muggle priest, Harry. Hearing confession, granting absolution. It’s different with you, I know,” he added gently. “None of my brothers have had dark wizards trying to snuff them, but I’d do my best to listen. Okay, Harry?”

“Okay.” Harry nodded. He pulled his shoulder away from Bill and looked around. From the moon and the magicked light, he could tell they were on a country road somewhere. “Where are we?”

“About fifty miles outside of Ottery St. Catchpole,” Bill said, getting to his feet. “We’ll ride the rest of the way the Muggle style, but I thought you might want a break first. Mum’s set us up with tea and breakfast.” The redhead pulled a small object out of his breast pocket, set it on the ground and muttered an engorgement charm. With a pop, a giant picnic basket appeared.

Hot, now that he wasn’t up in the sky with the cold air buffeting him, Harry slipped off his jacket. “Nice,” he said, holding it at arm’s length.

“Oh, yeah. The twins gave that to Ron this summer,” Bill glanced up. He gestured with his wand and the lid of the picnic basket flopped open. “They gave Ginny one too. Said the two of them were disgracing the proud Weasley name with their poor fashion sense.” Bill snorted. A checkered cloth floated up, snapped open before settling down gently in the grass. Four lights, contained in jars and flickering blue, rose out of the basket and settled themselves at each corner of the cloth, holding it down. “Actually, the twins gave Ginny and Ron both dragon hide jackets like those awful things they wear, but Ginny shrieked and threw hers like it would bite and Ron’s eyebrows climbed right up into his hairline. After the twins had a good laugh, they transfigured up two nice bomber jackets.”

Harry shuddered. The twins in dragon hide was one thing, but he didn’t want to think of strolling about Hogwarts with a best mate decked out in a lurid green jacket like the ones the twins had worn to the train station at last term’s end.

“Of course, there was more trouble,” Bill went on, shaking his head. “Ron said thanks but he wasn’t going to walk around Hogwarts dressed like Ginny, and Fred said, ‘why not, you looked so nice in that dress at the Yule Ball (Harry snorted with laughter). So Ron jumped Fred and Ginny pounced on George and Mum threw them all out of the house.”

“What happened next?” asked Harry, intrigued. The whole business of brothers and sisters puzzled and fascinated to him. The way the Weasleys always seemed on the verge of a fight or a big group hug unsettled him. Hot, cold, kiss, slap, he couldn’t see how they changed directions so easily. The fight he’d had with Ron fourth year—it nearly made him ill to remember.

“Who knows?” Bill’s voice was off-hand. “The next thing I knew, they were all playing apple Quidditch and Mum had _Witches’ Weekly_ out, transfiguring Ginny’s jacket to look one in the fashion section.”

A teapot, whistling and steaming, rose out of the picnic basket. Bill handed Harry a teacup, then suddenly frowned. “What’s this…” he muttered and beckoned his magicked ball of light with one finger. He pointed it to float right over Harry’s head. Harry sighed. He knew what was coming.

“Blimey, Harry,” Bill said, running his fingers through his own red mane. “Did your hair turn…”

“White.” Harry finished for him. “It did...I mean not all of it, just this one piece.” He tugged on the fringe that fell over his scar. “I just woke up one morning and there it…well, it could have been there for days and I wouldn’t have known…I don’t really look in the mirror and the Dursleys don’t look at me…who’s going to tell me? Hedwig? Anyway, I wrote Hermione and she wrote back…hold on, what did she say…’Harry’…” and here Harry thought he mimicked Hermione’s voice rather well…”’while it’s impossible for hair to turn white overnight, pigment can’t just fade from hair that’s already there, your hair has been known to do some rather odd things…’”

“Odd things?” Bill looked interested.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “I once grew a whole head of hair overnight after my aunt shaved me bald.”

“She shaved you bald?” Bill looked disgusted. “Weird. What did she do that for?”

“She doesn’t like my hair…none of the Dursleys do…it sticks up in places…” Harry patted his hair, trying to flatten some of the spiky parts. “In other places, it lies flat.”

“Aw, screw your aunt,” said Bill. “Your hair has always been cool…and you know what,” Bill leaned forward and winked. “It’s even cooler now…makes you look…I don’t know, dashing.”

Harry blushed and grinned. “All right. Thanks for that.”

While they had been talking two plates with sausage, eggs, toast and fried mushrooms arranged on them, had risen out of the picnic basket. They were hovering politely behind Bill now, waiting to be acknowledged. Feeling something he hadn’t felt in ages, real hunger, Harry reached around the redhead and grabbed a plate. He tucked into the food, stuffing his mouth and making appreciative noises while he chewed.

Bill looked at him with a quirked mouth. “Hungry?” he asked. “You’re shoveling it in like Ron…at least like he used to…” his voice trailed off.

“Mmph?” Harry swallowed and took a swig out of a tumbler of pumpkin juice. “What?”

“Nothing, forget it.” Bill sat down and poured out tea for himself and Harry. He watched Harry stuff in another slice of toast. “The Dursleys been feeding you, mate?”

Harry shook his head. “I wouldn’t eat with them if you paid me. I waited until after they had gone to bed and then went down to scrounge for myself. But to tell you the truth, I’ve been a bit off my food lately.”

Bill sighed. “Yeah, I thought you looked a bit scrawny.”

Hedwig swooped down and landed next to the tablecloth. She strutted over to Harry’s plate.

“Help yourself, girl,” he said, his mouth full again. She stabbed her sleek head at the plate, came up with a sausage dangling like a mouse from her beak. Harry stroked her back, turned to Bill. “Are we going to the Burrow, then?”

Bill nodded. “Grimmauld Place was pretty much compromised thanks to Kreacher. We couldn’t stay there. Besides,” the red-haired wizard shook his head and laughed harshly, “Remus burned the place down.”

“What?” Harry couldn’t believe his ears. “Lupin? That sounds like something Sirius would do, but Lupin…”

Bill’s voice was rough. “Remus took Sirius’s death pretty hard, Harry.”

Harry sighed. “Of course,” he said. “Last of the Marauders.”

“Exactly,” said Bill. “He went on a bit of a bender, a bit too close to the full moon, maybe. Anyway Grimmauld…” he twirled his hand, “up in smoke.”

Harry frowned. “What about Buckbeak?”

“Remus flew him back to Hogwarts,” Bill said. “To Hagrid’s hut…according to Hagrid, he fell off Buckbeak’s back and transformed immediately into the wolf…lucky Hagrid’s good with magical creatures, eh? When Remus transformed back, he and Hagrid holed up for about three days, drinking everything they could get their hands on. It ended with Hagrid staggering up to Pomfrey’s in a flood of tears with Remus in his arms.”

“He’s okay now, right? Remus, I mean…” Harry asked anxiously.

Bill shrugged. “Better than you might think. Dumbledore thought the whole thing was probably good for Remus, cathartic, you know. He told him that Sirius would no doubt approve of him burning down Black Manor.”

Harry nodded. Sirius had hated Grimmauld Place, had hated being stuck there. A sudden lump in his throat took him by surprise. Breathe, he told himself. Breathe. He sipped his tea.

“Kreacher’s dead, by the way.”

Harry spat tea. He looked at Bill. “Remus…?”

Bill gave a harsh laugh. “Hardly. The sick little fuck did himself in. He charmed one of the Black heirloom swords to hack his head off.”

“Ew,” said Harry.

“That’s not the half,” Bill went on. “Kreacher had a nice little spell all rigged up…Remus walked in just in time for the show…Kreacher’s head, spurting blood like a garden hose, zooming up to a plaque already hanging on the wall…right next to his effing mum’s head. Remus said Kreacher was glaring at him, daring him to do something. He was half in the bag any way, so rather than clean up after the nutter, Remus torched the place.”

“Good,” said Harry, piling egg on his toast. The grisly story was doing nothing to kill his appetite now that it was back. “What about Mrs. Black?” He bit into his toast.

“Burnt up,” said Bill. “Remus said she cursed him six ways to Sunday while she burned, smelling worse than one of Mundungus’s farts. Dad’s been to check the place. Nothing left but ash, he said. Mrs. Black is now lining a dustbin somewhere.”

“Just desserts,” said Harry. He finished his breakfast and cupped his hands around his tea, watching Bill eat. In the jars, the blue flames flickered. They cast cold shadows on the redhead’s face, turning his hair purple-black. A halo of light clung to his head and shoulders. Harry couldn’t look away.

Bill glanced up, cocked his head. “Wha’cha thinking, Harry?” he asked with a puzzled grin.

“Erm, I wasn’t thinking at all,” Harry answered, more or less truthfully. “I’m just so glad to get shed of the Dursleys for another summer. I can’t even think beyond that.”

Bill nodded. “Fair enough.” He held up the teapot. “More tea?”

Harry shook his head. “You know,” he said, “I didn’t know you could just burn down a wizard’s house. I mean aren’t there all kind of protections in place?”

“Sure,” said Bill. “But you can get around those if you really want to. And Remus is a pretty powerful wizard.

Harry nodded. He leaned back on one elbow and tipped his head to look at the sky. It was velvet black, utterly lovely. He could hardly believe it was the same sky he’d watched night after night from the Dursleys’ steps. His eyes strayed back to Bill. The young man yawned and stretched. Without his usual ponytail, his hair fell in thick waves past his shoulders. The fang earring was gone, but at his lobe, something shiny flashed. Harry had always thought Bill cool, but he’d never noticed how much his face was like Ron’s, now that Ron was growing out of his baby face. There were differences, sure. Bill’s face was tanned, with strong clean lines. Ron’s was as pale as milk and a bit of childish puffiness remained in his eyes, cheeks and mouth. Next to Bill, Ron seemed somewhat unfinished, like dough taken too soon from the oven. And Bill’s face had none Ron’s mobility. Ron was always goggling, pulling some face or the other, eyes going too wide, his mouth pulling or hanging ridiculously. And Ron’s smiles were always crooked, the right side curling higher that the left. Hermione had said that was endearing, the crooked smiles (and why had they talked about that, Harry wondered). When she called Ron “rubber-faced,” (always behind his back) her voice was affectionate.

Bill was shrugging off his jacket, beneath it he wore a sleeveless tee. Harry watched the blue light fall on the naked skin of his shoulder. Suddenly, and much to his surprise, he felt his stomach do that thing—the thrilling swoop, the one he used to get when he looked at Cho Chang.

Bill lay back on the grass and put his arms behind his head. “Relax a bit, Harry, then we’ll go on from here.”

Harry nodded; his mouth was dry. He watched his friend close his eyes, stack one dragon-hide boot on top of the other, then arch his back and settle into the grass. Harry took in the long form in front of him, the boots, the long legs, the elegant hips and long torso. The wide shoulders and the hair spilling on the grass. The way Bill’s ribs moved with his breathing. Harry’s stomach looped again. He decided he was going a bit mad.


	2. Chapter 2

  
Author's notes:

This is a serial, updated about once a week...just a friendly heads-up for people who prefer to read finished pieces.

Betaed by [Brumeux77](http://astele.co.uk/TheQuidditchPitch/Chapter/Details/viewuser.php?uid=1234)

* * *

“All right, ‘Arry?” Bill’s voice was sleepy.

“Yeah, I guess.” Harry hesitated. He stared up at the sky. Hedwig streaked by, a white blur in the black night. “Bill? I haven’t heard from Ron all summer.”

Bill sighed. He opened his eyes and turned on his side, propping his head up with one arm. “Yeah, that’s something we have to talk about before we go on.” He fiddled with a piece of grass. “Our Ronnie,” he finally said, “is not himself.”

Harry felt his stomach fall again, the feeling distinctly unpleasant this time. Whose self is he? he nearly blurted. “What do you mean? I mean I knew something was wrong…he hasn’t written, Hermione’s written me loads…is he mad at me? Usually he writes but this summer but nothing but a Quidditch magazine…”

“Hold up, Harry,” said Bill. “He’s not mad at you…but something’s definitely strange.” The redhead sat up, cross-legged and looked intently at Harry. “No one knows what’s up and Ron’s not saying. He’s not eating much, and the sleeping…it’s crazy, Harry, but it’s almost like he’s afraid to go to sleep.”

Harry let out a shaky breath. “I know what that’s like,” he said grimly.

“I know,” said Bill, softly. “That’s why I’m hoping Ron will talk to you.”

The two friends fell silent for a moment, then Bill got up and started putting things back in the picnic basket by hand. He moved the lights to the side as he gathered up the checkered cloth. “How are you sleeping, Harry?” he finally said.

“Pretty good,” Harry answered. “Amazingly enough. Either the Occlumency is paying off or Voldemort is off licking his wounds somewhere. I haven’t had any burning, you know, up there,” he gestured at his scar.

“Could be,” Bill mused, running his hand through his hair again. “Voldemort took a beating last spring. A lot of his supporters went to Azakaban.”

“Is our side bad off, Bill?” Harry asked, anxiously.

Bill shrugged. “We took our share of hits, sure. Tonks was in St. Mungo’s longer than anyone had expected, Remus was dodgy for a while, but he seems to be pulling out of it, Dad hasn’t been up to snuff, I expect it’s something to do with the snake bite--not your fault,” he added as Harry winced. “Snape’s as nasty as ever, Moody’s Moody and Dumbledore seems stronger, if anything. The Order’s okay, all things considered. Right now, it’s Ronnie who’s worrying me.”

Harry sat up now, feeling vaguely irritated. It wasn’t very generous he knew, particularly considering what he’d put Ron and Hermione through last year. But he had so much to deal with he didn’t know if he could add Ron not being okay to the list. Finally, he sighed, “Well, let’s hear it…not sleeping, not eating…what else?”

Bill put the plates into the basket and came to sit next to Harry. “Well, he seems to be having dreams. I told you he doesn’t want to sleep. Charlie and I have been taking turns sleeping in his room. Once we get him to lie down, he’s out like a light. He’ll sleep for awhile, then it’s like—I don’t know Harry, you’ll have to see if for yourself.”

“Nightmares?” Harry ventured. “Is that what it is?”

“I suppose,” Bill said, his brow furrowing. “He’ll toss and mumble a bit and then sit up with his eyes wide open. It’s like he’s seeing the most horrible thing in the world. He trembles all over, Harry. It’s terrible.”

“Blimey,” said Harry. “Will he say what he’s dreaming about?”

“Not a word, he just shouts at us to leave him alone. Then he gets up and goes running.”

“Running?” Harry wasn’t sure he’d heard right.

“Running,” Bill confirmed grimly. “In the frigging middle of the night.”

“Running, that’s a Muggle thing, running, jogging, exercise…”

“Well, it’s like he’s in training to be a Muggle,” Bill said flatly. “Laces up his trainers and goes running for kilometers in the dark. Charlie and I have followed him on broomsticks and he runs almost all the way to the village.” He paused, pulling at the grass again. Harry watched the blue lights dance over the chrome of the motorcycle. “I don’t know that the running is a bad thing,” Bill finally said. “When he gets back, he’s almost himself. He goes and gives Mum a big hug while she’s cooking and puts his sweaty arms around Ginny just to make her squeal. But it doesn’t last long and he’s back to being all silent and moody. He makes Mad-Eye look bloody cheerful.”

“Blimey,” Harry said again, this time more softly. “Ron’s always been a moody git,” he mused, “popping off…that temper…but it’s always seemed within reason. It fact he’s mostly cheerful when he’s not feeling sorry for himself or throwing a fit about something.” Harry put his head on his knee and looked sadly at Bill.

“There’s more,” sighed Bill. He flicked his wrist and the picnic basket shrank down to the size of a matchbox.

“Like what?”

“Well, as hot as it gets at the Burrow in the summer, Ron’s always wearing long sleeve t-shirts. Even if he’s swimming in the pond.”

Harry didn’t know what to say. Against his shoulder, he felt Bill’s arm lift in a sigh. The redhead frowned at the tiny picnic basket.

“The weirdest thing of all is that he can’t seem to stand to be around Mum or Dad.”

“But you said…”

“Yeah, he’ll hug Mum. But only after a run and then he’s jumping away from her or leaving the room if she comes in. It’s killing her, of course. She wants to smother him but he won’t let her near him. With Dad, it’s the same, but not as bad…and, the long sleeve shirts, the twins swear he’s on drugs. They want to jump him and push up his sleeves, they say we’ll find needle tracks.”

Something was occurring to Harry. “I don’t think he’s on drugs, Bill.”

Bill looked away. “Do you know what’s going on, Harry?” His voice was a little desperate.

Harry sighed. “I might. I need to see him first. Do you mind?”

Bill shook his head. “No, I trust you, Harry,” he said. “I’ve kind of kind taken over Ron for Mum this summer…since he can’t stand to be around her…” He laughed harshly, “A high maintenance job, that…makes me think twice about being a parent….but it’s not the first time that I’ve taken care of Ron for Mum. Ron’s, well, Ron’s kind of mine.”

“Yours?” Harry was confused.

Bill smiled, turned to look at Harry. “Yeah,” he said. “Ronnie’s mine.”

“Ron’s yours?” Harry had no idea what Bill meant.

“He’s just mine.” Bill’s smile was soft as he nudged Harry’s shoulder. “He always has been.”

“You don’t mean, er, you’re his, er…”

Bill burst out laughing. “I’m not his Dad, is that what you mean?”

Harry nodded, flushing.

Bill let out a hoot, fell back in the grass again. “I was only eleven when he was born…”

“All right, all right…” Harry said, feeling silly. “What do you mean, then?”

Bill didn’t seem inclined to sit up. He grabbed Harry by the back of his shirt and pulled him down into grass next to him. “It’s a long story,” the redhead finally said.

Harry waited. He was worried about his best mate, at the same time, there it was again. That tumbling in his stomach as he lay next to Bill.

“Ron was born in March, you know that.”

“Sure,” Harry answered.

“And you know Ginny was born around Christmas that same year.”

“Sure. Awfully close together, aren’t they?”

“Awfully is a good way to put it. Mum got pregnant so fast after Ron was born…a bit of a mistake…I think she and Dad messed up,” Bill laughed harshly. “Anyway, according to Dad…and Fleur for that matter…two pregnancies so close together can be really rough on a woman’s body.”

Harry just nodded. He had no idea, really.

“And then, Ginny and Robin were born prematurely.”

“Who’s Robin?”

“Ginny’s twin.”

“Ginny has a twin?” Harry was stunned.

“Ginny had a twin,” said Bill. “Robin died.”

“Holy shit,” whispered Harry.

“Tell me about it,” said Bill. “Charlie and I were home on holiday when Mum went into labor. It happened so fast, Dad didn’t even have time to owl the midwife. He delivered the babies himself…Ginny came first…and then Robin. Dad said Robin was tiny…just the size of his hand…he never drew a breath. Mum took it pretty hard. She basically went to bed for months…took Ginny with her. She didn’t cook, didn’t clean, didn’t get dressed, just stayed in bed nursing and sleeping…she never spoke to me or the other boys. Finally Dad had to go back to work…he got his brother’s wife to come look after us. Aunt Margola had her own boys…she had to bring them with her…she couldn’t look after us, her own kids and take care of the house and Mum and Ginny too, so Percy, he was about seven, took over the twins. Ron was my responsibility. And he’s been mine ever since.”

“He’s never said a word to me,” Harry said. “I wonder why.”

“It just doesn’t mean the same thing to the younger ones that it does to me, Charlie and Percy…” Bill said. “They were just too young…and Dad and me, Charlie and Perce…we don’t really talk about it. It still hurts Mum, you know. Being a mum is what she does. It’s all she cares about and she couldn’t even feed us. Maybe that’s why she’s always shoving food at us now.”

After that they lay there a while not talking. The sky had begun to lighten in the east and Harry could hear a bird twittering. Suddenly Hedwig plummeted out of nowhere and landed by Harry’s head. She tweaked his ear and tugged the rim of his glasses. Harry petted her, listening to her odd chirp. He supposed she was just as glad to be free of the Dursleys as he was.

Finally Bill said, “We better get on.” He rolled gracefully to his feet, then held out his hands to help Harry up. Not until they were gearing back up in helmets and jackets did Harry remember to ask about the bike.

“So, is this, um, his?” He ran his hand over the smooth leather seat. He’d never actually seen Sirius’s motorcycle, but he’d heard enough stories about it and seen it in pictures.

“It was.” Bill was busy adjusting the helmet on Harry’s head and knocking his glasses sideways again. “It’s yours now. Dumbledore’s had it for years. He thought you might like to have it. If you want, I’ll teach you to ride it this summer.” Bill vaulted on to the bike and waited while Harry climbed up behind him. Then he glanced back, getting ready to put his own helmet on. “Ready to go home, Harry?”

Home. Harry nodded. The Burrow. Harry wanted to go home.  



	3. Chapter 3

  
Author's notes:

This is a serial, updated about once a week...just a friendly heads-up for people who prefer to read finished pieces.

Betaed by [Brumeux77](http://astele.co.uk/TheQuidditchPitch/Chapter/Details/viewuser.php?uid=1234)

* * *

Chapter 3  
The sky was pink with dawn by the time they drew in sight of the Burrow. Bill pointed, Harry followed his arm. A small black figure etched its way across the sky. “That’ll be Charlie,” Bill shouted back to Harry. “Ron must be out for a run.”

They pulled up to the Burrow and Bill killed the motor. Harry dismounted and shed his helmet. His head felt light again and he rolled his shoulders to loosen the stiffness in his neck. He peeled off the leather jacket, stretched. It’d been a long night.

“Nice run?”

Harry glanced up to see Bill looking over his shoulder.

Ron was rounding the corner of the house, shaking sweat out of his eyes. Harry drew in a sharp breath. Ron looked simply terrible. He was as thin as a wraith and, beneath his runner’s flush, his face was gray. There were smudges beneath his eyes and tightness to his usually expressive mouth. He wore dirty trainers, torn Muggle running shorts and a long-sleeved t-shirt, which, dark with sweat, stuck to his thin chest. His hair was sweaty too, shoved back, plastered to his skull. It had grown long, almost as long as Bill’s and it curled wetly on his neck. He looked ill, Harry decided—too tight, too stretched, too frail, too taut, like something about to break. But when Ron saw Harry, he broke into a wide grin.

“Harry! Brilliant, you’re here.” The redhead jogged over and threw his arms around Harry. Unprepared, Harry stumbled. Ron’s embrace kept him from falling, but clumsily, the two boys did a bumbling two-step that made Ron and Bill laugh. Harry, however, hung on to Ron’s forearms, feeling his face flush. It was stupid, he knew, stupid, stupid, but he just didn’t want to look like an idiot in front of Bill. Bill had always been so cool, so, so…so something...I just want him to like me, Harry thought. Is that so bad? He glanced up at Bill, but at that moment, Ron pulled him in tight for another hug. The redhead’s fingers dug into Harry’s back, hurting, and Harry was suddenly aware that Ron was trembling. “Oy, mate…” he began, patting Ron awkwardly on the shoulder. Ron squeezed even harder. Harry felt his heels leave the ground and his back cracked—“Ow!” he yelled before he could stop himself.

“Sorry, erm…sorry, Harry,” Ron turned Harry loose and stepped back, his face chagrinned.

“Wait!” The word flew out of Harry’s mouth. Something was pulling at his heart, warning not to let his best mate get too far away…he might not get him back. He grabbed at Ron—and ended up with a handful of shirt.

“Ew.” Harry let go and wiped his hand on his jeans. Ron’s shirt was wet and disgustingly slippery.

Ron sniggered, his mouth an ugly grimace.

“He slimed you, didn’t he, Harry?” Bill’s voice boomed out over what was quickly becoming an irredeemably awkward moment. The tall redhead threw one arm around his brother and yanked him into his side. “That’s how our Ronnie shows his love these days.” He ruffled Ron’s hair. “Let’s go see Molly, shall we?” He led the boys toward the house. “OI, MUM! GOT SOMETHING FOR YOU!”

Just as they reached the kitchen door, Bill turned quickly, swooped down and seized both Harry and Ron around the thighs. He hoisted Harry up and over one shoulder, tossed Ron over the other.

“Hey!” shouted Harry, surprised.

“LEGGO, YA MANIAC!” howled Ron. He was struggling wildly. He arched his back and beat Bill’s back with his fists.

Bill just laughed at him and kicked open the kitchen door. “Special delivery, Mum,” he announced, dumping the boys unceremoniously on the floor. They landed in a tangle of legs.

Molly Weasley was at the stove, stirring something with one hand and waving her wand at some eggs which obediently turned themselves over in the frying pan. “Harry, dear,” she cried, breaking into a bright smile when she saw him. “How lovely to finally have you here. You’re just in time for breakfast.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry said breathlessly. He tried pulling his legs away from Ron’s, but Ron had turned quickly, seizing Bill around the knees. He yanked hard and Bill fell forward over the two of them. Bill caught himself with one hand, his hipbone smacking Harry’s head and knocking him flat. Harry’s glasses went flying.

Harry tried to sit up but Ron and Bill, who seemed to be wrestling now, rolled over his back and smashed him against the floor. “Bill and I ate on the road,” Harry managed to say.

“Yes, yes, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said, floating two jugs of pumpkin juice over to the table. She waved her wand again. Plates and cups flew out of the cupboard and skimmed across the table to arrange themselves in neat lines on either side. “I’m sure you can manage a second breakfast.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Harry got to his elbows. Bill flipped Ron over on his back and sat on him, but he was also sitting on Harry’s left leg, which was still under Ron.

“Give it up, Ronnie,” Bill commanded, tickling his younger brother. “You’ll never be able to take me.”

“Fuck off,” Ron shouted, squirming.

“Language, Ronald,” Mrs. Weasley said automatically.

“Pig-pile!” a voice shouted and another body thumped down beside Harry. It was Charlie, as cheerful as ever, though a bit damp and chill from his broomstick ride.

“Boys,” Mrs. Weasley said, absently. “Get off Harry. He’s thin enough to break.” The eggs zipped out of the frying pan, landed like Frisbees, two to a plate.

“And get off me, you great lumpy bastards,” Ron growled, struggling mightily against his brothers. Charlie and Bill rolled him over again and pinned him, all three of them on top of Harry. Harry wheezed, trying to breathe. It was a lot like getting sat upon by Dudley, except bonier (sharp knees and elbows instead of a great sloppy backside) and a lot friendlier.

“Yay! Harry’s here!” squealed a voice. Harry looked up to see a red-topped blur flying at them. He heard his glasses crunch as Ginny flung herself on top of her brothers.

That drove Harry’s ribs rather too hard into the floor. “Ooff!” The air went out of him. When he could breathe again, he realized Bill was on his knees, shoving his siblings off Harry.

“Ew, Mum, Ron’s all gross again.” Ginny yelled. She threw her arms around Harry. He hugged her back happily.

“Erm, here’s your glasses, mate, sorry.” Charlie handed Harry the parts of his glasses, one lens smashed, an earpiece snapped in two.

“Reparo.” Mrs. Weasley pointed her wand from across the room. Harry’s glasses snapped together in his palm. He wiped the lenses, put them on just in time to see Ron slip behind his mother and give her a sudden hug.

“Ronald Bilius!” Mrs. Weasley shrieked. The pot she was stirring belched, something white and gooey shot up and stuck to the ceiling. “You scared me! And you’re as clammy as a ghoul.”

Harry glanced around the Weasley kitchen. Now that he was out from under the siblings, able to catch his breath, he could feel there was something off. Way off. The Weasleys were behaving as they always, they were loud, boisterous, but the undercurrent of tension between them—Harry swore it was thick enough to bite off and chew. Whatever’s wrong with Ron, he decided, is making the whole family mental.

“Sorry, Mum,” Ron said cheekily, grabbing a piece of bacon. “I’ll go clean up.”

“Oh, no, you won’t.” Mrs. Weasley was as quick as a snake. She caught Ron by the ear and marched him over to the table. “You will sit down and eat everything in front of you first.” She pushed her youngest son down in front of a plate she quickly filled with food. “And Harry, you, right here. Sit.” Mrs. Weasley motioned at an equally full plate.

“Yes, ma’am.” Harry sat. Ron shot him a grin and attacked his plate. Harry’s eyebrows went up. Bill had said Ron wasn’t eating and here he was inhaling everything within reach, just like he did at the Great Hall. Harry looked at Bill, who squeezed his shoulder and took the place next to him. Ginny, Charlie and Mrs. Weasley sat too, passing juice and plates. They were talking all at once, carrying in their usual noisy way, but the air around them was so tight Harry thought it might shatter like glass.

“Harry!” Mrs. Weasley suddenly exclaimed.

Harry was so startled he dropped his pumpkin juice.

“What on earth have you done to your hair!” Mrs. Weasley snapped her fingers at a dish cloth. It whipped over to mop up the juice at Harry’s feet.

“You mean this?” Harry tugged on the white shock in his fringe. “I don’t know, Mrs. Weasley. I just woke up one morning and it was there.”

“Oh, dear,” sighed Mrs. Weasley, her brown furrowing. For a moment, Harry was afraid she was going to get up and fuss over him, but Bill frowned at her and shook his head. Mrs. Weasley’s face changed swiftly, she smiled. “And here I was thinking,” she said lightly, “you were making a fashion statement like my long-haired sons.” She shot dark looks at Bill and Ron.

“What are you on about?” said Ron. He stood up and leaned over Harry to gawk at his hair. “Cool,” he tugged on the white patch. “That’s wicked, Harry…don’t know how I missed it…stands out a bit, it does…”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Just what I need,” he muttered, “something else for people to stare at.”

“Like Mum says,” said Bill, his mouth full of food. “Tell ‘em it’s a fashion statement.”

“Oh, that’ll go over,” said Ron. “Harry’s known for a few things,” he winked at Harry, “but he’s not known for fashion statements.” Still standing, he leaned over the table and snatched up a piece of sausage with his fingers. “Then again,” he said, biting the sausage neatly in two and continuing to talk with his mouth full. “Why not? I’ll back you up, Har…Hey, Mum,” he pulled on a lock of his own fiery hair. “Punk me up a little, huh? Put in some spikes…or how about blue highlights? Hold on, I got it…I’ll pierce my eyebrows…and my tongue!”

“You will not pierce a thing, Ronald,” said Mrs. Weasley. “It’s bad enough your brother wears that…” She narrowed her eyes. “BILL WEASLEY, IS THAT MY CRYSTAL EARRING? I’VE BEEN LOOKING ALL OVER FOR IT!”

The whole table burst into laughter as Bill removed the earring, tossing it back to his mother. “Aw, Mum,” he said, sticking out his bottom lip. “I just wanted to look nice when I picked up Harry.”

Charlie, Ron and Ginny howled with laughter. Bill smirked at his mother who frowned before bursting into giggles herself. Harry knew he was grinning like a fool, himself—not only because he was enjoying the banter around the table, but also because Bill had winked at him and said he wanted to look nice to pick him up. Even though Harry knew it was a silly joke, he couldn’t help the crazy warmth spreading in his stomach. Is Bill flirting with me, he wondered, dizzily.

“I can give you blue highlights, Ron,” Ginny piped up. “Or bleach you blond if you like.”

“You will do no such thing, Miss Gin…” started Mrs. Weasley.

“Bleach me blond?” Ron interrupted his mother. “Hell no, I’d look like sodding Malfoy.” He took a huge swing of pumpkin juice and let out a burp.

“That was lame, Ron,” Ginny said, giggling.

“Wait, wait,” said Ron, holding up a hand. “I can do better…” He swallowed heavily, worked his throat and produced a rafter-shaking belch.

Ginny had her hands over her mouth, laughing helplessly; Bill rolled his eyes and Charlie’s face contorted. His cheeks puffed and he looked like he might be working on an even bigger burp. Mrs. Weasley, however, glared at her son. “Ronald, we do have a guest.”

“Aw, Mum,” Ron whined. “Harry can burp the national anthem; he makes the twins look like amateurs.” Ron turned to Harry, who was grinning and flushing. “Go on, mate, do it for her like you did when Hermione…”

He stopped dead, catching his breath with a sudden strange look in his eyes.

“Shit,” Ginny muttered.

Here we go, thought Harry. Ron was staring into space as though he were seeing something that wasn’t in the kitchen. “Ron?” Harry said softly. He was aware that all the other Weasleys had gone as still as garden statues.

Ron tried to recover. “Hermione…yeah, she was…” He stopped again and put his hand to his forehead. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Ron?” Harry put his hand out slowly and touched his friend’s forearm.

“Shit,” Ron whispered. “Aw, crap. FUCK!” He threw off Harry’s hand and bolted out the back door.

A silence fell over the table, then, Mrs. Weasley swore so colorfully Harry was stunned.

Charlie sighed. “It never lasts long, does it?” he said.

Mrs. Weasley rose, sat, rose again. Bill caught her arm. “Don’t, Mum, you’ll make him frantic.”

“I know, I know,” Mrs. Weasley sat again. Her fingers plucked nervously at a silver locket around her neck. “But, Ronnie, oh Bill…” she sounded as if she were about to cry.

Ginny was crying. Silent tears streaked her face. “I hate this,” she said fiercely. “It’s horrid, horrid!”

“Mum, Ginny,” said Bill, putting one hand on top of Ginny’s head, the other still on his mother’s arm. “Harry’s here now and I swear between the two of us, we’ll get to the bottom of this, right Harry?”

Harry nodded, dumbly, with the sick feeling he was in over his head.

He looked at Bill and Bill nodded. Ginny blew her nose loudly on her napkin. Harry got slowly to his feet and went out in the back door in search of his friend.  



	4. Chapter 4

  
Author's notes:

This is a serial, updated about once a week...just a friendly heads-up for people who prefer to read finished pieces.

Betaed by [Brumeux77](http://astele.co.uk/TheQuidditchPitch/Chapter/Details/viewuser.php?uid=1234)

* * *

Harry found Ron in the paddock. The sheep were busy going to and fro, pulling at the grass while it was still wet. Over their dirty gray backs, Harry caught a glimpse of livid red. Ron was sitting in the dirt, leaning against the paddock fence. His knees were drawn up and his arms and head resting on them.

“Oy, Ron,” Harry called, not wanting to startle the other boy.

“Hullo, Harry.” Ron picked his head up, turned toward Harry. His face was pale and sweaty.

“Can I sit down?” Harry felt like he was intruding.

“Sure,” Ron said. He looked mortified. “I’m alright for the moment. A good spew tends to straighten me out.”

“Um, so what’s going on, Ron?” Harry plopped down next to his friend.

“Nothing much, Harry,” Ron said, his voice bitter. “I’ve just gone a bit mental, that’s all...” Harry started to say something but Ron kept talking. “Heaved up the breakfast Mum was so eager to push down me.” He nodded his head toward the garden. “All over the summer squash. Nice, huh?”

“Big deal.” Harry shrugged. “I’ve seen you chuck slugs. And what about me, last term…spewed on your pajama bottoms?

Ron’s grin was feeble. “Right nasty, that was.” He was silent for a moment, then sighed. “I guess Bill gave you the low-down,” he said, sourly. “The crazy dreams, the ugly moods, my head full of stuff I never wanted to see…horrible stuff.”

“Bill told me what he could,” Harry said. “But he doesn’t know what’s wrong. Says you won’t tell him,” he added flatly.

Ron let his head fall back. “Harry,” he sighed, “if I told, I swear they lock me up. Shit, the stuff that’s up here,” he tapped himself on the forehead, “it’s crazy and I can’t get it out…If I told them, mate,” he said, his voice low and miserable, “they’d jerk me off to St. Mungo’s…I’ve heard them talking…I won’t go, Harry…I’d run away first.”

“Ron,” said Harry, alarmed. “You’ve got it all wrong…”

Ron went on as if he hadn’t heard. “I’d rather die than go to St. Mungo’s. Bloody hell, Harry, you remember the damage ward! I don’t want to be in there with loony Lockhart and Neville’s scary parents!” Ron dropped his head back on his knees, pulled his knees in tight to his chest.

“Come off it, Ron,” Harry gently took a handful of red hair, tried to pull Ron’s head up. Ron batted him away. Harry settled for squeezing his friend’s shoulder. “It’s not like that. If you got sent to St. Mungo’s for crazy dreams and not sleeping, don’t you think I’d be there already?”

Ron was quiet, so Harry went on hopefully. “Well, right, you’re going a little spare over something. I might be able to help you in that department.”

“I know.” Ron’s voice was muffled and he sighed into his knees. “I’ve been holding on, waiting for fucking Dumbledore to let you come, already…I feel like you’re the only one I could talk to, but shit, Harry,” his fingers trailed in the dust, “I don’t wanna unload my crap on you…you’ve got enough on your plate, don’t you? You don’t want to deal with a nutter best mate…”

“Shut up,” said Harry sharply. “It might do me a bit of good to think of something other than Harry fucking Potter and his problems. Didja ever think of that?”

“No.”

“Well, think about it and don’t be such a git.”

Ron was silent for a long time. He stared into space, chewing his lip.

Harry sighed. “Ron, talk to me.”

“Okay, okay.” Ron scrubbed his face with his hands, then, looked at Harry. “Do you think you could teach me that Occlumency stuff?”

Harry frowned. “Occlumency?” he said doubtfully. “I dunno. I mean, I could try, I guess, but I’m not like an expert or anything.”

“Go on,” said Ron. “You were brilliant teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts. Hell, I can produce a Patronus now, Charlie and the twins can’t do that.”

“Well,” said Harry, slowly. “I guess I could try…but Ron, is someone trying to get into your head…that’s what it’s for, you know…blocking someone who’s trying to get into your head.”

“Someone trying to get into my head…” Ron trailed off, thinking.

“It’s not Voldemort is it?” Harry said suddenly. “Because I haven’t heard a peep from him all summer…don’t tell me he’s switched to you…”

“No, no,” said Ron, irritably. “And don’t say that fucking name, okay? It’s like having someone come up and yell Boo! when you’re already about to piss your pants.”

“Okay, okay, okay,” Harry held up his hands. “Sorry. Look, I could try, but it’s not very pleasant. At least it wasn’t with Snape…I think it’s better, though, if you practice with someone you trust.”

Ron turned wide blue eyes toward Harry. “I trust you, mate.”

“But, Ron,” Harry protested. “You need your…”

“Just do it!” Ron said brusquely.

Harry sighed. He had been about to say that Ron needed his wand to defend himself before the redhead interrupted him. Now something else was occurring to him. Having a go at Occlumency with Ron would give him a chance to peek into his best friend’s mind, maybe he could figure out what was bothering him. It was unfair, he knew, but he wanted badly to bring something to Bill, to show him his trust wasn’t misplaced…and it was all in the name of helping Ron, wasn’t it? Feeling a bit underhanded, he pulled his wand out of his back pocket, slowly, giving Ron time to change his mind.

Ron nodded.

Harry aimed his wand between Ron’s eyes. “Legilimens,” he said, softly.

Instantly, the images leapt out at Harry. His own face, frightened and absurdly young as he struggled in the Devil’s Snare…A pale face, lip curling in distain while a familiar voice sneered, “Weasleys all have red hair and freckles, and more children than they can afford.” Malfoy’s face tore like parchment and Harry saw something that made his heart jump to his throat...cloaked figures, hoods over their faces…in a circle, chanting, while one voice rose in triumph over the others…Harry shivered, he knew that voice. Suddenly a young woman’s face swam into to view…terrified, furious…her red hair swung…Ginny?

He was shoved hard. The woman’s face was snatched away as he fell back.

“You bastard,” Ron was screaming. “You motherfucking bastard.”

Harry blinked. He was flat on his back in the paddock. Ron was curled over his knees, hands buried in his hair. He rocked back and forth, moaning and swearing.

“Oh, bloody fuck, hell, shit, Harry. You could have warned me.”

Harry sat up. “I told you it wasn’t very pleasant.”

“Pleasant? Shit!” yelled Ron. His voice was as hoarse. “Snape did that to you? Fuck me, Harry, how did you stand it?”

“I didn’t. I couldn’t,” Harry answered truthfully. “But I think Dumbledore could have done it so it wasn’t so horrible.”

“Harry…” Ron gasped, his face going white, “…gonna puke again…” He wrenched away and grabbed on the paddock fence. He hung over the bottom rung, retching. Strings of bile and spit swung from his bottom lip. Harry sat miserably, waiting for his friend to finish. Finally Ron swiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked totally wrung out as he leaned back against the fence.

Harry waited a moment. “Ron,” he said, carefully. “I gotta ask you something.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“I saw…in your head…that was Voldemort…”

Ron flinched and shuddered. “Don’t…say…name.”

“Sorry, but it was him, wasn’t it?”

“I think so…but Harry, I swear he’s not trying to get into my head. It’s not him, I swear.”

“Then, who is it, Ron?”

Ron was silent.

“This has something to do with the Department of Mysteries, doesn’t it?”

“Don’t ask me any more right now,” snapped Ron. “I just puked up my nuts, okay? I don’t have anything else.”

“Okay.” Harry tried to sound soothing, though at the moment he felt like throwing up himself. “You can’t do it all at once, anyway. Want to try again later this afternoon?”  
“Maybe.” Ron dropped his face in his hands. Remembering his lessons with Snape, Harry suspected his friend now had a splitting headache. He moved slowly, laying his arm gently over the redhead’s shoulder. He waited for Ron to shake him off again, but Ron let the arm stay. He was quiet for a long time. Finally his voice came, low and ragged. “Noticed Dad’s not here?”

“Mmh.” Harry hadn’t noticed.

“He’s in Diagon Alley trying to find something to help me sleep. Last two potions he got didn’t work for shit. Now the twins are offering to brew something up, but I don’t fancy waking up with two heads or covered in feathers.”

“Ron, how long has this been going on?”

“All summer.” Ron picked up his head, let it roll back against Harry’s arm. “Uh, Harry, can we not talk about this any more? I got a sodding headache.”

Harry sighed. Bill was counting on him and he had the terrible feeling he shouldn’t. He wasn’t going to be able to help for shit. He looked at his friend’s face. Ron’s eyes were closed, the lashes on his cheek light gold in the sun.

“Ron…you’re going to have to talk to someone. Tell me what’s going on and I swear…

“Don’t, Harry,” his friend whispered, wearily. He kept his eyes closed.

“But…”

“Don’t… Ron’s eyes cracked open. Blue and bloodshot, puffy pink rims. “Promise me you won’t ask,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “Promise and I’ll try and tell you, okay? As soon as I can, okay?”

“I promise.” It was all Harry could do.


	5. Chapter 5

  
Author's notes:

This is a serial, updated about once a week...just a friendly heads-up for people who prefer to read finished pieces.

Betaed by [Brumeux77](http://astele.co.uk/TheQuidditchPitch/Chapter/Details/viewuser.php?uid=1234)

* * *

Harry realized how exhausted his friend was, there in the paddock. Ron’s head fell back again on Harry’s arm. His breathing slowed. After a moment, Harry glanced over. Ron’s eyes were closed, his lips parted. Sleeping, then, thought Harry, let him. He resolved to stay as still as possible, wanting desperately to give his friend a moment of peace.

The sheep wandered back and forth, making their strange bleating sounds. They kicked dust that spun up gold in the air as the sun climbed the sky. Harry felt Ron’s head roll to his shoulder. All the bodily contact he’d had in the hours since Bill picked him up had made him strangely tired. In a just few hours, he’d had been touched more than he had during his two months in the Dursley house. In a way, it was wonderful (shoulder squeezes, hugs, even being sat upon by four Weasleys at once) but Harry knew it was dangerous. The walls he’d built around himself were fragile. Oh, they were more than enough to shield him from the hatred that lived at the Dursleys’ house, but he knew they wouldn’t hold long in the Burrow. The Weasleys knew nothing about privacy. They’d snatch at him with their affection, pick away at him with concern and persistence. They’d peek over his walls, stick fingers in his chinks, touch him, pet him and Harry knew that’s what would break him in the end. And he wondered who he’d be after that happened. Would he be able to stand it? Or would he be dragged off to St. Mungo’s himself, screaming about Sirius and curtains with whispering voices behind them?

Ron had grown heavier, sagging against Harry. He was slipping down Harry’s front, reminding Harry of how he’d had clung to his robes in the Department of Mysterious, drunk as a loon on some hex. He struggled with Ron’s lanky form, but Ron was absolutely boneless. He crumpled like Aunt Petunia’s favorite lawn chair had crumpled under the weight of Dudley’s fat arse. Harry sighed. He shifted Ron as gently as he could. He tucked and straightened, rearranged the redhead’s long arms and tried to make his own body as accommodating as possible. It took some doing but finally he had Ron’s head in his lap and his body in what Harry hoped was a reasonably comfortable position. Ron’s bright thick hair spilled onto his thigh. In the sun, it was drying into long red loops and waves. Harry leaned against the fence. His arse and legs were growing numb and he could smell Ron’s last sick, but he didn’t really care.

The sun moved higher in the sky, the sheep grunted and bleated, their chewing sounds surprisingly noisy. Harry sat with Ron’s head in his lap, gazing at a daylight sky he hadn’t seen since he left Hogwarts, and slowly his muddled thoughts began to straighten themselves out. Sure, he’d had a tough year and a lousy summer. He’d watched Cedric die, he’d been tortured by Voldemort. He’d had a year of headaches and horrid dreams and he’d been so angry he thought he’d explode. Then he’d lost Sirius. Maybe he’d have a nervous breakdown over that one day. But, that would have to wait, wouldn’t it? He had other things to do right now. There was still Voldemort, for one thing. The bastard had been quiet, but sooner or later, he’d pop out of the woodwork and Harry would have to deal with him, kill or be killed, la-dee-da and all that. In the meantime, there was, what? Well, life…he had to remember to live…while he still could. Voldemort was inexorably part of his life, but he wasn’t his whole life. There was school and Quidditch and two best friends, one who needed him badly. And Harry was determined to help. After all, Ron meant the world to him. For years, Ron had backed him up, he’d pulled him out of nightmares and followed him into the all the trouble that came from having a zigzag scar on your head. Sure, Ron had been the world’s biggest prat about the Tri-Wizard Tournament, but Harry had treated him like shit for most of their fifth year. So they were even. All in all, Ron, along with Hermione, had been the best friend a bloke could ask for, and he’d been the person who’d given him the family he always wanted. A surrogate mother and father, a messy jumble of brothers, a spunky little sister, a place to think of as home…and then there was Bill…(Harry’s brain itched as he tried to cram in one more complication). Bill wanted Harry to help Ron and Harry wanted something in return from Bill. He wasn’t quite sure what he wanted, but he was going to have to figure that out with half of his brain. The other half of his brain was going to very busy with Ron, he was certain. As long as Voldemort continued to leave him alone. If he didn’t, oh well, maybe Harry would have that nervous breakdown sooner than expected.

The sun was high now, Harry was pleasantly warm. The sheep were standing with their heads down, at rest: some were kneeling. Ron’s breathing stayed quiet and measured. Harry felt himself sleepy.

He startled briefly as a warm body settled next to his. “Harry,” the voice was soft in his ear. “Don’t wake him up, he really needs to sleep. Lean on me if you want and have a nap too.” For a moment, Harry wavered. Bill was more dangerous than all the other Weasleys combined. Lean against Bill? Harry might as well take a Bludger to his walls. Still, it was impossible to resist. Harry didn’t open his eyes, just shifted his weight against Bill’s chest. And there it was again, that crazy Cho Chang swoop in his stomach again as he let his head fall back. He could smell Bill, the soft skin at his neck. He sighed and snuggled closer. It was nice, dangerous, but nice.

How long they sat, Harry didn’t know. He went in and out of consciousness, almost like he was riding a pleasant dream. He opened his eyes from time to time to find Ron’s head still in his lap, the red hair falling to cover his face. He couldn’t see Bill but could feel him warm and solid behind him, his arms curling lightly around Harry’s.

Harry was out cold when Bill’s voice woke him. “Shh, shh, it’s all right.”

“I’m okay,” he almost answered before he realized Bill wasn’t talking to him. Bill was leaning over him, petting Ron’s hair. Ron whimpered and his head moved restlessly on Harry’s leg.

“Shh, it’s okay, love.” Bill’s voice was so gentle, it tore at Harry’s heart.

Ron moaned. He struggled awkwardly to sit up. “S’all right,” Bill said, but Ron batted his hands and shoved roughly away from Harry.

“Ronnie,” Bill called softly. Ron’s eyes were open but dazed. Harry had the impression Bill was calling his brother from across a gulf.

Ron rocked back on his heels, his eyes open and staring. His mouth dropped open. Harry sucked in a breath. His friend looked nothing less than horror-struck.

“Wake up, Ronnie,” Bill urged. “You’re home, you’re in the paddock and Harry’s here.”

Ron blinked. He closed his eyes. He shook his head like a dog flinging water. Harry could see him tremble.

“Ron!” Alarmed, Harry reached out for his friend.

“No!” said Ron, sharply. He thrust violently away from Harry and his brother.

“It’s all right.” Bill was holding Harry by the shoulders now and Harry guessed he was keeping him from touching Ron again. “Come on, Ron, wake up!”

“SHIT!” Ron scrubbed his hands over his face.

“It’s okay.”

“SHIT! FUCK! SHIT!”

“Calm down, it’s just us.”

Ron startled to scramble away backwards, breathing heavily. Bill leaned quickly over Harry and caught his brother’s ankle. Ron froze, Bill’s weight squashed Harry into an awkward position. He held his breath to keep from moving, he didn’t want to startle Ron further. Ron was panting and his own heart beat wildly. Only Bill seemed calm.

“Are you awake, Ron?”

“Yeah,” Ron finally gasped. He looked around wildly. “Leggo my leg.”

“Sure.” Bill kept a firm hold on his brother’s ankle. “Just talk to me first.”

“Leggo. I said I was okay.”

“Sure, you are, love. I’ll let you go but I don’t want you to run off. You’ve already had a run today.”

Ron tensed, like he would spring up any minute. Bill tugged lightly on his ankle. Harry didn’t dare to move.

“Ron?”

Ron nodded. He suddenly sagged, defeated. “Okay, Bill,” he said, his voice flat, toneless. “I won’t do a runner.”

“Good.” Bill’s voice was still calm. “Let’s go inside and get you cleaned up.”

“Want to be alone,” said Ron, closing his eyes. “Nobody with me.” His face was shutting down, going lifeless. His body pulling tightly in on itself.

“That’s fine.”

The three got up and walked back to the house. Ron went in first and walked through the kitchen without speaking to anyone. Charlie sat on the couch by the fireplace, servicing a broom. Mrs. Weasley still sat at the table, one hand toying with her locket, the other kneading the tablecloth. Ginny was nowhere to be seen. Harry glanced at Mrs. Weasley, she gave him a thin smile, he turned to follow his friend up the stairs.

Bill stopped for a moment to speak to Mrs. Weasley, then he too went up the stairs.

Ron disappeared in his room. Harry stood on the landing, not know what to do. Bill came up behind him and steered him back down the stairs into what had been Percy’s room.

“You’ll bunk here tonight with Charlie,” Bill said kindly. “And you can keep your stuff in here. Dean Thomas is arriving tonight to visit Ginny and we’re giving him the twins’ room. If they show up, they can share with him.”

Harry nodded, taking his trunk, Firebolt and Hedwig’s cage out of his pocket. Bill enlarged them back to their normal size. “Where are you sleeping?” Harry finally asked the older wizard.

“I’m taking a turn with Ronnie tonight.”


	6. Chapter 6

  
Author's notes:

This is a serial, updated about once a week...just a friendly heads-up for people who prefer to read finished pieces.

Betaed by [Brumeux77](http://astele.co.uk/TheQuidditchPitch/Chapter/Details/viewuser.php?uid=1234)

* * *

The rest of the day was the weirdest Harry had ever spent at the Burrow. Ron went into the shower, then went directly back to his room. Harry sat in Percy’s old room for a while, then wandered downstairs.  
  
“Ah, Harry, good to see you,” Mr. Weasley was at the table. He stood up to shake Harry’s hand. “Sit down, lad, have a cuppa.”  
  
Harry sat and answered Mr. Weasley’s questions about his summer, telling him about his Occlumency, how he’d been sleeping and that his scar hadn’t burned once. Mr. Weasley nodded, he seemed gravely interested in what Harry had to say and he didn’t ask one question about plugs, electricity or telephones. Harry noticed that Mr. Weasley looked almost as tired as Ron did and a bit thinner as well. The older man rubbed at his neck as though it ached.  
  
“Snake bite?” asked Harry.  
  
Mr. Weasley nodded. “Not your fault,” he added automatically.  
  
Harry sighed. The Weasleys must think he was the biggest drama queen.  
  
Harry asked about Grimmauld Place and Mr. Weasley confirmed it was burned to the foundation. The older man went on to explain to Harry that Dumbledore and the Aurors had rigged up quite a defense system around the Burrow and that they should all be reasonably be safe until it was time to return to Hogwarts.  
  
“Now, about this white hair,” Mr. Weasley said, eyeing the fringe that covered Harry’s scar. “Molly told me it just appeared?”  
  
“What? Oh right.” Harry tended to forget about his white forelock unless someone drew it to his attention. “Hermione thinks I could have had pigment loss because I’ve had a few, erm, shocks…”  
  
“Yes, yes…” Mr. Weasley looked uncomfortable. “How are you, er, coming to terms with your loss?”  
  
Harry looked down at the table, his eyes feeling scratchy. He had no answer. Finally he shrugged.  
  
Mr. Weasley swiftly patted his hand. “Sorry, lad, I-I shouldn’t have asked. It’s just that Molly and I, well we like to think of you as one of our own…”  
  
“Thanks, Mr. Weasley,” Harry managed to squeak. His throat tightened and his nose tickled. He was afraid he was going to let out with a big babyish sniff.  
  
Mr. Weasley gave him a tight smile. His eyes flicked to Harry’s forehead again. “No burning from your scar, eh?” The older man seemed to want to be sure.  
  
“Nothing. No Voldemort dreams either.”  
  
“Ah.” Mr. Weasley couldn’t help but flinch at the name. “Well, then.” He patted Harry again awkwardly, got up from the table to go in search of his wife.  
  
Harry went over to sit in a chair next to Charlie. A blue flame flickered in the fireplace, sending out a cooling breeze, rather than heat. Charlie looked up from the broom he was servicing and grinned at Harry. Harry grinned back. After his uncomfortable conversation with Mr. Weasley, it was a relief to join Charlie. Affable and open, Charlie was the least complicated of the Weasleys. He had none of Bill’s intimidating intellect, none of the prickly pride that Percy and Ron seemed to share. He wasn’t constantly thrusting himself center stage like the twins and unlike Ginny, he wasn’t a girl. He was simply friendly and cheerful, just a bloke who liked dragons and flying.  
  
“Horrid summer, I suppose, Harry?” Charlie said casually.  
  
“Too right,” said Harry, his grin even wider.  
  
“Blow up anybody?”  
  
“Not this time.”  
  
“Trouble with house-elves? Dementors ringing the doorbell?” Charlie’s strong arm went back and forth over the broom as he polished its handle. Charlie was big, the twins were a bit stocky, but Charlie was the only really bulky Weasley. He was also the only Weasley with a tan. He was even browner than he had been the previous summer. Or maybe, Harry thought, with all Charlie’s time in the sun, the inevitable had happened. He’d become one big freckle.  
  
“Actually,” Harry sank lower in his chair, getting comfortable. “All told, it was pretty quiet. Horrid,” he said, softly, “but quiet.”  
  
“Well, you can forget all that stuff now,” said Charlie, firmly. “Because you’re here now…you’re back at the Burrow…where we set an extra plate for you even when you’re not here…and here’s what you can look forward to…Mum will be stuffing you with food…open your mouth and she’ll shove in a pie…Ron is going to drive you mad with some of the worse moods you’ve ever seen.” The big redhead winked, “The twins say he’s PMSing…Ginny will snog her boyfriend right in front of you…and…” Charlie looked up from his broom and grinned wickedly. “I’m going to whip your scrawny arse at Quidditch every night until you cry like a little girl.”  
  
Harry laughed out loud. Charlie looked pleased. Suddenly, he lobbed the tub of broom polish right at Harry’s face. Harry put up his hand without thinking and caught the tub right before it smashed into his glasses. Charlie’s eyebrows went up. “I see your reflexes haven’t suffered.” He caught the tub when Harry tossed it back and went back to his broom polishing.  
  
“Charlie,” Harry ventured. “How did you ever get to be a Seeker?”  
  
“Oh, you know,” Charlie said, easily. “Same as you. Fast hands, fast eyes.”  
  
“Yeah, I just wondered. You’ve got more of a Beater’s build.”  
  
“Sure, that’s the position I was started in. But after the third time I snatched the snitch right from under the Seeker’s nose, I got changed over.”  
  
Just then, Harry heard footsteps on the stairs. He looked up quickly. When he saw Ginny, he realized he was disappointed. He had wanted to see Bill. Ginny crossed the room and flopped on the couch next to Charlie. She had turned fifteen at Christmas time. Now Harry realized that she was growing up, and fast. Her bright hair fell all the way down her back now and she was creamy-skinned under her freckles. Her mouth had a mischievous quirk and her eyes, which tended to be pink-rimmed like Ron’s, were lined with something that made them dramatically big. She stretched out her legs (long, she was going to be one of the tall, lean Weasleys) examining her nails, which she’d painted black with shimmering dots all over them. She seemed to be excited about something.  
  
Harry’s mind turned back to Ron. “What does Ron do up there?” he finally asked.  
  
“Brood,” said Ginny.  
  
“Sits on his bed, staring,” added Charlie. “Paces a bit; snaps at his siblings. Honestly, I’ve seen sweeter dragons.”  
  
“He swears worse than me,” Ginny went on, bouncing lightly on the couch. “He slams doors, and bangs things too. He’s the new family ghoul.”  
  
Ginny was altogether too cheerful for someone who’d been living with Ron all summer and Harry soon discovered why. The blue fire suddenly flared in the hearth and turned green. Harry looked up to see a dark form revolving, then, Dean Thomas tumbled into the Weasley’s living room.  
  
“Dean!” Harry jumped up, glad to see his dorm mate.  
  
“Hullo, Harry.” Dean shook Harry’s hand. “Thought I might find you here. How ya’ doin?”  
  
“Hey!” Ginny was standing with her hands on her hips. “Who’d you come to see? Me or Harry?”  
  
A grin split Dean’s face. He went quickly to hug Ginny. She gave him a swift kiss on the mouth.  
  
Charlie rolled his eyes at Harry; Ginny stuck out her tongue at her brother. “Come on, Dean,” she said, tugging his arm. “The pond is brilliant this year, Charlie and I built a raft and we’ve seen some kind of river siren there a few times.”  
  
“Ginny Weasley!” Mrs. Weasley said sharply as she came into the room. “Give the lad a chance to have a bite first.” She turned to Dean and Harry noticed her eyes were a bit red. “Have a nice Floo, dear?”  
  
“Lovely,” answered Dean, politely. “Fred and George say they’ll be along later. Tomorrow maybe.”  
  
Mrs. Weasley beamed. “That’s grand. Let’s see, now,” she said, waving her hands. The teapots whistled; bread, honey pots and mustard flew out of cupboards, chopped vegetables leapt from the sink where they were draining.  
  
“Mrs. Weasley, if you’re not a domestic goddess,” teased Dean, “there ain’t one…” Knives plunged themselves into pots, spreading their various pastes. Cucumber slices hopped one by one on to the bread.  
  
“Go on with you, cheeky,” said Mrs. Weasley, smacking at the boy’s shoulder. “It’s just lunch.”  
  
Harry turned to Dean. “You Flooed from the twins’?”  
  
Dean nodded. “They had a ward they had to take down before it would let me in.”  
  
“Right,” said Harry. “Mr. Weasley said Dumbledore’s got the Burrow sewn up tight.” He felt a trickle of bitterness in the back of this throat. Maybe if Sirius had been able to stay at the Burrow, instead of Grimmauld Place, things would have been different. At least at the Burrow, he could have gotten outside, and there would have been no awful Kreacher to betray him. He had a wonderful vision of Kreacher’s ugly head burning…  
  
“Hey, Harry.” Dean’s voice called him back. He looked up as the tall boy reached toward his white shock of hair. “New look?”  
  
“Yeah.” Harry decided to take Bill’s advice. “Fashion statement -- like it? Ron says he’s going to pierce his tongue…want to join in?”  
  
Dean shook his head, laughing. “My mum would kill me. She says if I pierce or tattoo anything before I’m eighteen, no amount of magic in the world will save my hide. Still…” he cocked his head as he looked at Harry’s fringe, “…you do look kind of cool.”  
  
Just then, Mrs. Weasley called them to the table and Harry found himself eating once again. At this rate, he was going to fill out Dudley’s old jeans. From time to time he glanced up at the stair, hoping Ron would come down. But when Bill finally came stumping down, Harry felt his heart leap.  
  
Bill stayed long enough to introduce himself to Dean and to grab some sandwiches. He patted Harry’s head and Harry felt himself flushing madly. Then Bill kissed the top of his mother’s head and went back upstairs.  
  
Ron never showed. Dean, Harry supposed, had been warned by Ginny, for he made no comment.  
  
After lunch, Harry wandered out to the pond with Ginny and Dean to see if he could spot the siren but she was keeping herself hidden under the murky green water. From the pond, he glanced back at the Burrow. He could see Ron’s window on the fifth floor. The curtains were open but the glass empty. The room seemed black from where Harry stood, black and empty.  
  
He went back to the house to give Ginny and Dean some time alone. He sat near the fireplace, enjoying its cool breeze after the heat of the day. Charlie still had the servicing kit out. He’d apparently decided to service every broom in the Weasley shed. Harry chatted easily with the young man, getting the latest (“mating madly, Hagrid would be thrilled”) on Norbert.  
  
After a few more hours, Ron came silently down the stairs. His mouth was tight and his brow furrowed. Harry swore he was dragging a black cloud after him. Ron made his way over to the fireplace and sat on the couch, taking the far end and keeping his distance from Harry and Charlie. Charlie nodded at his younger brother but made no attempt to draw him into the conversation and Harry followed his lead. Ron seemed dazed as he stared into the fireplace at the cold blue flames. Again, Harry found himself glancing time and again at the stairs, but Bill did not come down.  
  
After dinner (Mrs. Weasley had marched upstairs to fetch Bill, who as it turned out had fallen asleep, and shot Ron a look that brooked no argument—he came to the table only to pick at his food) they all went out to the paddock. Dean had brought his soccer ball with the idea of teaching Ginny some moves—“he thinks he’s going to bounce that thing off my head,” she told her brothers. “Brilliant, let me have a go,” Ron responded. For a moment, Harry’s spirits rose. If he ignored the flat tone, he could hear a bit of the Ron he knew.  
  
Harry ran around after the ball, feeling helpless without his broomstick. The Weasley brothers kept crashing into each other and kicking each other in places Harry personally would rather not be kicked. But oddly enough, getting Charlie’s booted foot in his crotch seemed to make Ron far more cheerful than he’d been since breakfast. Harry was glad if Ron was glad, but still, he couldn’t help thinking it was a bit odd.  
  
Before long the sun was setting and they wandered sweating into the house. They passed the hours playing Exploding Snap until Mr. and Mrs. Weasley went to bed. Dean and Ginny disappeared for a while (“A walk?” Ginny suggested, then had to endure her brothers’ teasing when the walk brought her home with straw in her hair). Another hour passed and Charlie was snoring, taking up more than half of the couch. Dean and Ginny were cuddled on the other end and Harry was squished between the two of them and Charlie’s massive right thigh. Bill and Ron were in the squashy chairs, playing wizard’s chess. Harry watched them. He thought Ron had a pretty good game going, but Ron was growing restless and moodier by the moment. “Aw, fuck,” he finally growled, flicking a pawn off the board. “Can’t concentrate.” Harry noticed the white queen giving him the finger.  
  
“Quit whining and play, Ron,” said Bill, irritated. “It’s just a game.”  
  
But Ron got out of his chair and stalked over to the fireplace.  
  
Bill glared at him for a minute, and then turned to Harry. “How about you, Harry?” he said, evenly. “Want to finish out his game? He’s got me cold.”  
  
Harry glanced up at Ron, who didn’t turn around, before taking his place at the board. He doubted he could beat Bill no matter what kind of head start Ron had given him. For one thing, he wasn’t much of a chess player and for another, Bill’s knees were bumping his under the table, something he found very distracting.  
  
After a few moves, the chess pieces were shouting at him, their tiny voices angry. “What are you trying to do, kill me?” yelled a knight as Harry moved it.  
  
Ron seemed to find this funny. He left off glowering by the mantelpiece and came over to watch. He dumped himself on the floor, leaning casually against Bill’s chair. Bill moved his queen and sure enough she leapt upon Harry’s knight, beating it down to its knees before kicking it over to the side of the board.  
  
Harry sighed, “Sorry, Ron. I just killed your knight…”  
  
Ron made a dismissive gesture and closed his eyes. He leaned his head against Bill’s knee. Bill reached down and stroked his brother’s hair.  
  
Harry’s mouth nearly fell open. He pretended to stare at the board, contemplating his next move, but really he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Bill’s hand, which was sliding gently through Ron’s hair. Harry half expected Ron to tell Bill to shove off, yet he sat still, accepting his brother’s touch as though it were normal. And suddenly, Harry realized it WAS normal…it seemed to him to be a most extravagant display of affection, and yet, for Ron and Bill, it was simply normal. Harry, who had watched Ron bicker and spar with Percy, the twins and Ginny for years, was amazed to see him now quiet and almost peaceful under Bill’s hand. Bill smoothed the hair from Ron’s forehead and Harry suddenly felt his heart bursting with jealousy. Is this what he wanted? A big brother who loved him…to look after him…was that what Sirius was going to be…Harry’s heart squeezed so painfully, he had to catch at it.  
  
“Harry…” Bill’s voice, sounding worried, only made things worse. Harry felt his eyes sting.  
  
“It’s nothing.” He stood up so suddenly, he knocked the chess board over. “Gotta go to the loo.” He left the room, hearing, behind him, the tiny outraged voices of the chess pieces.  
  
In the bathroom, Harry splashed water on his face, then, decided, as long as he was there to use the toilet. He remembered with a smile, the first time he had gone to the bathroom at the Burrow. Afterwards, he stood, frantically looking over the toilet without the faintest idea of how to flush it. “Why won’t you flush?” he’d finally said in frustration. “Well, why didn’t you say so?” the toilet had snapped back at him. “I’m not a mind reader, you know.” When Harry had reported what had happened to Ron, the redhead seemed chagrinned. “Oh, right, sorry for that,” and he was. “I should have told you. We don’t have anything fancy or automatic at the Burrow. You have to ask the shower for water too…and you better say you’d like hot water, or you’ll get Arctic cold.”  
  
Harry returned to the living room feeling better. Bill glanced up in concern and Harry felt his face burn. He tried to smile to let Bill know he was okay, but really he wasn’t sure what his face was doing. Ron was back in his chair, having started a new game with Bill. The chess pieces seemed to be complaining to him about Harry’s performance.  
  
“Aw, give him a break, you gits,” Ron snarled. “His game is Quidditch.”  
  
Charlie woke with a sudden snort. He glanced around the room, perplexed. “Uh, right, downstairs,” Harry heard him mutter, and saw his eyes dart to Ron, then Bill. He seemed satisfied with what he saw, for he stretched comfortably and yawned and announced he was going to bed. Ginny and Dean soon followed and Bill and Ron continued on, making their moves and counter moves. Harry found himself dozing off on the couch.  
  
“I don’t want it.” Ron’s sharp voice woke him. Harry sat up.  
  
“Give it a try.” Bill had something in his hand. “It might work. Even if you don’t need the sleep, I do.”  
  
Ron looked guilty. “Rub it in,” he grumbled. He held out his hand for the vial Bill was offering him. “And it’s not the twins’?” He looked suspiciously at the clear blue liquid.  
  
“Cross my heart,” said Bill. “But Dad says they are working on something. They say they know you better than any chemist in the world.”  
  
“They’d kill me just for the hell of it,” said Ron, sourly. “Or turn me into an owl.”  
  
“You know,” said Bill, thoughtfully. “Mum and Dad could use a new owl. Errol’s looking a bit off-color these days.”  
  
“Aw fuck off, Billy,” Ron muttered without heat. He glared at the potion; his fingers so white on the bottle, Harry worried the glass would shatter.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Harry laid in bed later, Charlie snoring across the narrow room. As tired as he was, he couldn’t sleep. He supposed it was because he had become used to sleeping in the day at the Dursleys’. He’d become nocturnal, he decided. Like a bat or owl. He thought about Hedwig and how nice it would be to be her, lovely white and forever flying. Why had his father, he wondered, chosen a stag as his animal form? Did one actually chose an animal to become or did an animal just happen? He’d have to ask Hermione about Animagus when she arrived. But if he were ever to become an Animagus, Harry wanted to be something with wings.  
  
The house creaked, settling on itself, the ghoul clanked. Charlie snored. Admitting he was getting no closer to sleep, Harry climbed out of bed.  
  
He drifted downstairs to get something to drink, then went to the back door to practice emptying his mind, as he did every night. But tonight, for the first time, he couldn’t keep his mind quiet. His thoughts kept spiraling up to the bedroom on the fifth floor.  
  
Finally, he gave up. He padded back into the house and mounted the twisting stairs. Going up past the first landing, he heard Mr. and Mrs. Weasley breathing heavily. On the second floor, the twins’ room was silent, but there were rustles coming from Ginny’s on the third floor. Harry paused. She’s not my sister, he told himself. Then up and up he went, two more flights until he was outside Ron’s door.  
  
Feeling coldness in the pit of his stomach, Harry pushed the door. It swung open silently, bumping then coming to rest against the cot in which he usually slept at the Burrow. The room was dark, but he didn’t need to see the orange posters that covered Ron’s walls nor the hideous orange comforter on his bed to know they were there. His eyes adjusted to the dark and he could pick out Ron’s still form on the bed. The redhead was curled tight into a protective ball, which made Harry want to weep.  Ron usually slept on his back, arms and legs open in a trusting sprawl.  
  
Bill lay on a cot next to Ron’s bed. Harry looked at him and saw the older wizard’s eyes were open.  
  
“Can’t sleep?” Bill’s voice was quiet as he sat up. Harry shook his head.  
  
With a glance at Ron, Bill eased out of bed and motioned Harry toward the door.  
  
“We’ll leave the door open a crack,” said Bill as they stepped out on the landing. “That way, we’ll hear him if he starts dreaming.”  
  
“Did he take the potion?” Harry wanted to know.  
  
“Yeah, he did,” said Bill. “Not too happy about it but he was out like a light, as usual. He’s been asleep about two hours.”  
  
“What about you?” asked Harry as he and Bill took seats on the steps.  
  
“I slept a little. But it’s my night on duty. I’ll sleep tomorrow while Charlie’s on.”  
  
Harry sighed. “Ron’s working the two of you awful hard.”  
  
“Don’t I know it,” said Bill. “But that’s what family does. We help each other through the bad times. Wish we’d known when Ginny was having her trouble with Tom Riddle…”  
  
“I wouldn’t know,” admitted Harry. “I mean, not Ginny, but about what a family does…the Durselys would do handsprings if they had an excuse to pack me off to the loony bin.”  
  
“Loony bin?” Bill frowned. “Is that what Ron’s worried about?”  
  
“Yeah,” mused Harry. “He’s worried about that, but it doesn’t add up…you don’t go to St. Mungo’s if someone’s trying to get into your head, do you?”  
  
“Someone trying to get into your head? Harry, what the hell are you talking about?” Bill sounded alarmed.  
  
Harry went on. “I got in for a moment, Bill…into his head…and I saw some things. Voldemort and someone who looked like Ginny.”  
  
“Bloody hell,” Bill’s voice rose. “You saw Who-Know-Who in my brother’s head? And Ginny? And how the hell did you see into Ron’s head? Shit, this is worse than I thought.”  
  
“At first I thought maybe Voldemort was trying to get into Ron’s head and that’s why he hasn’t bothered me all summer, but Ron says it’s not him.”  
  
“How would he know?”  
  
”Honestly,” Harry sighed. “I don’t know. Unless he already knows who’s trying to get in.”  
  
“How would he know that?” Bill looked ready to explode.  
  
Harry turned to look at the redhead. “Did Ron tell you anything about what happened in the Department of Mysteries last term?”  
  
“Yeah, I got the whole story, from him,” Bill said, impatiently, “from Mum, Ginny, Remus…”  
  
“Did Ron tell you what happened to him?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, he said he was hit with a disorientation hex and then he summoned a brain that attacked him. Bloody embarrassed about that, he was. Said he was supposed to be helping you, not making an arse out of himself. He showed me some scars on his upper arms.”  
  
“What did they look like?”  
  
“Kind of like old burns. They wrapped around his arms a few times, but they were faint and healing.”  
  
Harry shook his head slowly. “Bill, what if they haven’t healed? Madam Pomfrey said thoughts leave the deepest scars…what if the thoughts are still there…”  
  
Bill sat silent for a moment. “And they’re somebody else’s thoughts?”  
  
Harry nodded.  
  
“Bloody hell,” whispered Bill. “No telling what they keep in the Department of Mysteries. And whose brain could it be…I wonder…maybe Dad knows.”  
  
Harry sighed. Quite suddenly he was tired. Exhausted. He didn’t want to talk any more. He put his head on his knees.  
  
“Harry?” Bill slid closer to him on the step. “You okay?”  
  
“Yeah,” Harry answered, yawning. “Can’t sleep though.”  
  
“Maybe you can,” Bill said gently. “Come on now.” The older wizard put his arm around Harry, pulled him close.  
  
Harry couldn’t find it in himself to resist. He let Bill pull him sideways into his lap. Felt the older wizard’s hand petting his shoulder. He sighed contentedly. His eyes grew heavy. “Bill?” he asked, nearly asleep, “favor?”  
  
“Sure, Harry.”  
  
“Call me love.” Harry was startled by the odd request coming out of his mouth. “Like you did Ron…”  
  
“Oh, Harry.” Bill’s hand left Harry’s shoulder and settled on his head. For the briefest moment, Harry felt Bill stroking his hair. It was exactly what he’d wanted. “It’s going to be alright, love,” Bill said. “It will.”


	7. Chapter 7

  
Author's notes:

This is a serial, updated about once a week...just a friendly heads-up for people who prefer to read finished pieces.

Betaed by [Brumeux77](http://astele.co.uk/TheQuidditchPitch/Chapter/Details/viewuser.php?uid=1234)

* * *

Noises from Ron’s bedroom woke him.  

“Up, Harry.” Bill’s voice was urgent in his ear.  The redhead sat him up and leaned him against the wall, then tried to stand and stumbled instead.  “Fuck!  Dead legs.”

Harry figured it out.  He’d been sleeping across Bill’s legs.  He was completely awake now and scrambling for Ron’s room.

There was a strange light coming from the room.  Harry saw it before he saw Ron.  The light was green, faint, it surrounded Ron who was standing on his bed.  “What the hell..” he started.

“I have no idea.”  Bill was behind him, his hand on Harry’s shoulder.  “This is something I’ve never seen before.”

With a sudden shock, Harry realized that Ron wasn’t standing on the bed, exactly.  He was floating a few inches above it, his arms were at his sides.  His palms were turned open in a gesture Harry associated with Muggle churches.  

Ron was whispering to himself.  Harry stepped closer to hear the words, taking Bill, hand still on his shoulder, with him.

“Blood traitor, traitorous whore.”  It was Ron’s voice, but the words were ones Ron never would have spoken.  “Fat red cow, hiding out in a barn…rather suitable Annabelle would say…Annabelle said you’d be popping out the traitor brats, and right she was ….”  Ron’s voice rose with each word.  “She hates you,” he shouted, “Annabelle does, …she sent a message for you…she said to tell you this, Avada K…”

“Ron!” Bill flung Harry out of the way.  He tackled his brother down to the bed.  

“WHAT’S GOING ON!”  

Harry heard voices from downstairs and someone yelling for Bill.  Feet pounded on the stairs.

Harry leapt up from the floor.  He knew Ron well enough to know he wouldn’t want his family to see him like this.  He kicked the bedroom door shut, sealed it with a locking spell.

Then he climbed on the bed with Ron and Bill, not caring that there was hardly enough room on the narrow mattress for the three of them.  Bill was on the knees, holding Ron by the shoulders.  The younger redhead was collapsing forward.  His eyes were half open, lids fluttering.

“Ron,” said Bill, urgently, “can you hear me?”  He gave Ron a gentle shake

“Mum’s dead,”  Ron said.  His voice chilled Harry to the bone.

“BILL!”  Someone pounded hard on the door.  “BILL, WHAT’S GOING ON?”

Bill lifted Ron’s chin.  “Mum’s not dead, Ronnie,” he said.  Harry could hear the fear in his voice.

Ron’s eyes rolled up in his head.  He fell against Bill.

 “She’s dead,” he said.  “I saw it.”

“No, you didn’t,” Bill gently tried to sit Ron up. “She’s bloody well alive. Listen, honey.  She’s right outside the door, screeching like a Howler.”

Ron blinked. His eyes cleared. He sat back on his heels abruptly and put his hands over his face. “Oh fuck,” he groaned, “fuckfuckfuck.”    

“That’s it,” said Bill, encouragingly, his hands still on Ron’s shoulders.

“Fuckshitfuck.”

“That sounds more like my Ron.”

“OPEN THIS DAMN DOOR!”  More pounding.  “Ginny, go get my wand.”

“Hang on a minute, Mum!” Bill shouted.  The pounding stopped.  “We’re coming out…”

“I saw it, Bill…like I was killing her,” Ron turned wildly to look at Harry.  “It was like you said, ‘Harry…when you bit Dad.”

“Ron,” said Harry, hoarsely.  “It didn’t happen.  It was just a thought, somebody else’s thought.”  He grabbed at his friend, at the long sleeves he was wearing.

“No!”  Ron shoved Harry away roughly.  “Get off.  Leave me alone.”  He was breathing heavily, close to tears.

“It’s okay Ron,” said Bill.  “It’s okay.  Let’s just go, okay?”

“Go?” asked Harry.

“Running,” said Bill.

“Oh.”

Ron nodded tersely. He stripped off his pajama bottoms, put on an outrageously ugly Chudley Cannons support cup, and his Muggle running shorts. He left on the long-sleeve t-shirt, laced his trainers grimly, and then stalked toward his door. Before he could fling it open, however, Bill flicked his wand.  The knob turned, the door swung open gently.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Ginny and Dean stood on the landing, all looking dismayed and worried.  Ginny wasn’t crying this time, she had pink spots on her face and she seemed angry.  Dean stayed in the shadows behind her.  Charlie was no where to been seen.

Ron looked at his family for a moment, swore under his breath.  He bolted down the stairs as Bill and Harry came out of the room.  Harry didn’t know why, but he felt mortified, like he’d let the Weasleys down.

“Son, what…” started Mr. Weasley

“Same old, same old,” Bill said.  “Dreams, staring into space. Now it’s time to run.”

Since Bill neglected to mention the levitating, Harry decided not to bring it up either.

“What was he shouting about?” Mrs. Weasley asked shrilly. “He hasn’t shouted before.”

“Mum, Dad,” said Bill. “I think it’s time to get Dumbledore involved.  He’ll know what to do. At least I hope he will. I’m going after Ron now.  Feel up to flying, Harry?”

So Harry flew with Bill, tracking Ron’s form as it made its way made along the paths and hills that lay between the Burrow and Ottery St. Catchpole. Neither he nor Bill spoke, they just flew side by side, Bill close enough for his long thigh to brush Harry’s.  

Finally Ron turned around and began his run back to the Burrow.  Harry and Bill hung in the air letting him get a bit ahead before they followed him back.  Harry’s Firebolt hummed, obviously wanting to rip a hole in the sky.  He held it back, bouncing in the air like a boat on the water.  The winds fluffed his hair, warm and cool at the same time.  The night had grown lighter and soon the sun would rise.

Ron was tons lighter after his run. Back at the Burrow, he joked with Harry at the breakfast table, teasing his mother (“Good grub, Mum,” he said opening up to show her a mouthful of half-chewed food.  “Eww,” Ginny squealed. “You are so beyond gross, Ron.”)

After breakfast, which Ron happily kept down, Harry followed his friend outside.  

“Want to go down and meet the siren, Harry?” Ron asked, picking at his sweaty long-sleeved shirt.

“Sure.  You’ve seen her too, then?”

“Yeah, a few times.  She seems all beautiful from the shore, but if you swim near her, you can see her skin’s a little mossy and her teeth are horrid.  All green and pointy, nasty bits of fish caught in them.  Kinda like the Merpeople from Hogwarts.  Puts me off the pond a little, to be honest.”

They sat at the pond and talked awhile.  Ron got Harry up-to-date on the pro Quiddditch teams.  The Cannons were doing a tiny bit better this year, Ron was hopeful they could keep it up.  Harry wanted to know if Ron knew anything about the Order; he didn’t.  Then Ron asked Harry for news of Hermione.  

“You didn’t get any letters from her?” Harry was surprised.

“Oh, I got tons.” said Ron.  “Just haven’t read them.  Concentration’s off a bit…”

“Sure,” said Harry, quickly.  “She’s in Bulgaria, right now.  With Krum and her parents.” (Oh, Vicky,” said Ron, but he couldn’t seem to muster any of his usual surly interest in Hermione and Krum.)  “She said Krum actually took her Dad up flying,” Harry went on, “…and now her parents want her to wear a bicycle helmet and pads when she’s flying.”

“It’s not like Hermione flies much,” Ron mused.  “Not that she’s all that bad…bet she’d fly more if there were a place on a broomstick to prop a book.”    

Harry laughed, thinking of Hermione on her broom, the long hair streaming out behind her, nose in a book.  They sat in silence for a while, Ron throwing small rocks into the pond.

“Uh, Ron.” Harry hated to ruin a pleasant moment, but he knew he had to.  “Want to try again…Occlumency, I mean.”

“Harry, if you try and get into my head again, I swear I’ll throttle you.”  Ron tried to make his tone light but he sounded grim all the same.  

“Look,” Harry tried. “We didn’t do it right.  You’re supposed to have your wand to defend yourself…”

“Well, then that settles it then,” said Ron, curtly.  “Don’t have my wand.”

“Don’t have your wand?”  Harry was amazed.  He felt uncomfortably vulnerable without his wand.  In the wizarding world, he’d rather go without his trousers than his wand.

Ron wouldn’t say where his wand was and it all went down hill after that.  Ron grew silent and moody.  He left off with throwing rocks and yanked up handfuls of grass.  Finally muttered something about a shower before standing and striding off, leaving Harry to follow in his wake.

Harry didn’t see Ron again until late in the afternoon.  He spent the time hanging out with the twins, who had Flooed in while he and Ron had been at the lake.  

“Ronniekins didn’t even say hi this time,” muttered Fred.

“Right,” said George.  “He usually can manage at least a scowl in our direction.  We’d like to give him the Fred-and-George cure, Harry.”  

“Yeah,” said Fred.  “Maybe hold his head underwater till he says what’s wrong.”  

“Or tie him to a tree and chunk spiders at him,” George added, darkly.  “But Bill’s being all bossy and protective, the prat.”  

The twins snarked for awhile about Ron, then they suddenly noticed Harry’s white lock of hair and brightened considerably.  

“Natty,” said George.  

“Distinguished,” said Fred.  He followed Harry about for a while, offering toffees that would change his hair color every time his mood changed.

Ron showed grudgingly for dinner.  He came down the stairs with a mutinous look on his face.  Bill, right behind him, seemed to be propelling him with a hand in his back.  Once again, Ron pushed food around his plate, didn’t say much.  The twins were going on about a Muggle contraption they’d acquired.  

“Black-market,” Fred whispered, excitedly to Harry.  

“You hide it in your hand,” said George, “Shake hands with some poor git and he gets a shock, see?  We think it’s brilliant.”

“A joy-buzzer?”  Harry was dumbfounded.  Dudley had attacked him with one of those when he was about six.  Harry wouldn’t shake hands with Dudley so Dudley had sat on him and shocked him over and over in the face.  Then somehow the joy-buzzer had started shocking Dudley instead, who went blubbering off to Aunt Petunia.  Harry had gotten two days in the cupboard under the stairs for that.  He hadn’t thought of it in years.

After dinner, there was of course Quidditch.  Harry followed the Weasleys and Dean outside and watched as Bill charmed hoops to hang at either end of the paddock.  

“Let’s see that ball, Dean.”  Charlie bounced Dean’s soccer ball on one big palm.  “How about it, folks…about the size of a Quaffle and we don’t have to worry about it getting notional, taking off for the village on its own.  We’ll just fly around, try and put the ball through the other team’s goal.”

“Now you’re talking.  That’s football, mate,” said Dean.  

With a wave of his wand, Bill turned his, Ron’s, Fred and Harry’s shirts green (Harry noticed he left Ron’s long-sleeves alone) and Ginny’s, George’s, Dean’s, and Charlie’s blue.

At first they tried to figure out some rules, “like can we kick the ball?” asked Dean, looking down doubtfully his feet.  “You do kind of need your legs to stay on a broomstick.”  

“Not Harry,” said George, brightly, “he can balance on one buttock.”

“All right, all right,” grumbled Harry.

“While flying upside down,” added Fred.  “And we’ve seen him catch the snitch with his tongue.”

“Aw, shut up,” said Harry.  He felt a smile tugging at his lips.

The others were laughing.  Even Ron snickered.

In the end, rules were forgotten and they all just zoomed about, trying to snatch the ball from each other anyway possible and get it through the hoop.  Not surprisingly, it didn’t take long for the play to get rough.  The twins were flying sideways, trying to kick the ball (“this how you play football, Dean?”).  George accidentally kicked Harry’s glasses off.  Charlie swooped and caught them, returned them but later he hip-checked Harry just as he was about to catch a pass from Bill.  Harry went careening dangerously close to an apple tree.  He nudged right and his Firebolt looped the tree before soaring high in the sky.  Harry heard Charlie laugh.  He looked down.  The big redhead was rocketing toward the one hoop, Fred in pursuit while Bill sprinted forward to block him.  Charlie tossed the ball to Ginny who was closer to the goal and she shot forward to put it through.  

“Gooooal!” shouted Dean.

Harry dropped back down to the field of play, neatly catching the ball as Dean tipped it up to him.  Harry rolled on the Firebolt, streaked straight toward the goal on the opposite end of the paddock.

“Oh no, you don’t,” he heard Charlie yell and saw the former Seeker barreling at him from the left.  Harry pulled his nose up and soared over Charlie, wheeling suddenly as Ginny zipped into his path.

He didn’t want to hurt Ginny but Ginny had no qualms about hurting him.  She came right at him, put one foot against Harry’s broom and pushed hard.  Harry spun in a circle, struggling to keep his balance.  George shot in and that moment and snatched the ball from under Harry’s arm.  George tossed the ball to Ginny and she flipped it to Dean, who wheeled to face the opposite goal.  Righting himself, Harry floated above his friends, watching.  He thought they all looked like a flock of bird changing directions, everyone taking a wide piece of sky as they swung toward the opposite goal.  Then they were off and racing.  

Harry kicked at the air; his Firebolt, faster than any of the other brooms, shot over the group.  He positioned himself at the opposite goal, watching the Weasleys and Dean streak toward him.  Dean shot.  Harry put his hands out to stop the ball but Ron suddenly cut in front of him and caught it.  Then the redhead circled, mounting the air and pelting back toward the other goal.  

Harry laughed and rolled on his broom.  As usual, on his broomstick, he felt pure joy.  No matter what happened with Voldemort…if he lived…as long as he could still fly…

“Wake up, Harry.”

Harry looked around.  Bill was watching him fly backflips and curly-cues.  

“We’re playing a game here, mate.”

“Right,” said Harry, grinning.  He looked down the field to see Ron zipping toward the far hoop.  His friend was flying recklessly.  He zigged, zagged, dove and climbed.  He was clumsy in the air, broom wallowing as he nicked to the left to avoid Dean’s long arm.  Suddenly Dean’s leg shot up.  He kicked the ball hard, sending it from Ron’s grip straight into the air.  It seemed to go up for miles before it stopped, rotating slowly.  As the ball began to fall, everyone on the paddock homed in on it.  Dean and Ron were the closest.  Dean blasted up from the left and Ron from the right.  Harry closed his eyes.  He knew what was about to happen.  Neither Dean nor Ron was the world’s greatest flyer.

There was a sickening crunch as the boys collided hard in the air.  They both came apart from their broomsticks. Dean clawing with his arms, managed to hook his with one hand.  Ron, however, tumbled in the air.  Fifty feet up, with his back arched, arms and legs flung wide, bright hair sparkling in the sun.

Harry swore and tore toward his friend.  Bill sprinted in too, diving lower than Harry.  Harry managed to get his broomstick under Ron.  Ron hit him hard in the shoulder and Harry toppled to the side.  He swung crazily for a moment upside down and hanging from one leg, watching as Ron slammed into Bill.  Bill, snatching at Ron with both hands, caught the front of his brother’s shirt.  He jerked Ron toward him, trying to pull him astride the broom.  The broom wobbled and pitched.  It was like a bucking thing, struggling to gain air for a moment.  Then it snapped in two, sending both brothers plummeting to the ground.

Ginny screamed.  Charlie shouted.  He streaked toward the ground, pulling up beside his brothers.  Harry managed to pull himself back on to his broom, went into a dive.  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ginny and Dean still up in the air, Ginny above Dean as she helped pull him back on his broom.

Harry hit the ground harder than he’d intended and fell to his knees beside the Weasley brothers.  The twins landed soon after him.  Charlie was pulling Bill up, Ron was flat on his back, eyes open and grinning crazily.  “Wicked,” Harry heard him say.

“He’s fucked up,” Fred muttered to George.

“Nah, he’s fine,” said Charlie.  “Good save, Harry, Bill.”

Thump.  Thump.  Ginny and Dean hit the ground next to Harry.  “Everybody okay?” Ginny asked hopefully.

“I’m fine,” Ron loudly announced.

Bill only grunted.

Harry thought he was going to be sick.

Ron had one shoulder rolled at a crazy angle under his body.  His lip was bleeding and his teeth were bloody.  Bill looked only a little better.  Blood was streaming from his nose and he had a livid mark on one cheek.  

Only Charlie seemed unimpressed.  “Bill, your nose is broken,” he said.  “Mum can fix that in a snap.  Ron, well, erm, let’s have a look.”  He and Bill gently rolled Ron’s right arm from behind his back.  The arm was hanging limply, and in the wrong place.  The shoulder looked strange too, as if someone had chopped the end of it off with an axe.    Worse, Ron was laughing and pulling away from his brothers.  His face was twisted in pain but he was laughing and his eyes were wild.

“Bugger,” said George.

“Just dislocated,” said Charlie.  “No big deal.”

“No big deal,” Bill muttered, shaking his head.  He swabbed his face with his t-shirt, smearing the whole bottom half of his face with blood.

“Well, all told it was only about a two story fall,” Charlie said, frowning at his brother.  “You don’t need to baby him, Bill…of course you did bounce a few times, Ronnie…but we get worse every day on the reservation.”

“So, you can handle a dislocation?” asked Bill, glaring up at Charlie.  “ARE YOU DAFT?  Sit down!”  Ron had been trying to get to his feet.

“Sure…we have a healer on staff, I’ve helped her a few times,” replied Charlie.  “It’s pretty simple.  You’re going to have to hold him though.”

“Right.” Bill got behind Ron, who was still trying to squirm away, insisting he was all right (“I’m good, I’m good, let’s play”).  “You’re out of your bleeding mind,” Bill said as he wrapped his arms around Ron’s chest, trapping his left arm against his side.

“Oh, you’re great, all right, Ron,” Fred said.  “Only your arm’s on backward.  Looks like you splinched yourself.”  

“But it is an interesting look for you,” added George.  “Honestly, Ron.  If you want to keep it that way, you have my full support.”

“Will you two shut up,” growled Bill.

“Aw, Bill,” whined George.  “Harry’s taken falls loads worse, he did a hundred-footer.”

“It’s not like I was enjoying myself,” Harry said irritably.  Even after three years, he was still a bit touchy about being the only one at Hogwarts who fainted at the sight of Dementors.

Charlie took Ron’s arm in with both hands, adjusted it gently.  Ron winced.

“Charlie, don’t.”  Ginny sounded panicky.  “You’re going to hurt him.  Let Mummy do it.”

“NO!” said Ron.  He seemed to be breathing funny.  “No way…not going to Mum.”

“Ginny,” Bill commanded.  “Go get Ron’s broomstick.  Before it flies into the village.  Will you help her, Dean?”

“Sure.”  

Harry watched Dean and Ginny climb on to one broom.  (“Damnit, Dean, sit back, I’ll fly it,” Ginny snapped.  Privately Harry agreed.  Even when she was shaken up, Ginny could fly circles around Dean.)

“I said I’m okay.” Harry could hear Ron’s voice rising in irritation.

Harry turned back to see his friend’s eyes closed.  He grimaced (as did Harry) as Charlie moved his right arm back and forth.  Oddly enough, Ron did seem okay.  Obviously he was in pain, but the dark mood that had come on him while he and Harry were at the pond seemed to have vanished.

“Ready?” Charlie asked Bill.

“Ready.”

Bill tightened his grip on Ron.  “Lean him back,” said Charlie.  Bill leaned back until he and Ron were almost prone.  Charlie raised Ron’s arm, then put his foot into his brother’s armpit.  He pushed hard with his foot and at the same time pulled Ron’s arm straight out from his shoulder.

Harry wanted to close his eyes.  Ron was arching his back, trying to get away from Bill and Charlie seemed to be working quite hard.  His face was red.  “Give me some counter-pressure, Bill.”  

“I don’t know what the hell you are talking about,” snapped Bill.  

“Just pull,” grunted Charlie, “no, damnit, the other way.”

Ron was hissing through his teeth now and his arm seemed to be about a foot longer than it usually was.  Charlie took the arm to a forty-five degree angle and suddenly there was a loud pop.  

“Argh,” Ron made a sound half way between pain and relief, then sagged against Bill.  Charlie let go of his arm and Ron and Bill slumped backwards.  

“There you go,” said Charlie, “It’s right back where it should be.”  He seemed pleased with himself.  

“Wow,” said Fred, weakly.  

“Yeah,” George agreed.  The twins’ color had gone off a little.  Greenish, Harry decided.

Bill struggled up, settling Ron back against his chest.  Both were breathing heavily.

“Hey, little brother,” said Charlie, laying his hand gently on Ron’s head.  “You’re back together, but you’re going to be hurting.  Let’s get you in and find some strong pain potion.”

“Right,” said Bill.  “Something for the pain.”  Harry looked at Bill.  The older wizard was as green as the twins.  There was a fresh stream of blood coming from his nose.  

“Bill,” Ron opened his eyes.  The pain was still etched all over his face but he was grinning.  “Billy, you can let me go now.”

“Fuck.”  Bill wiped his mouth with his shirt, then stood, pulling Ron up carefully.

“It’s nothing,” said Ron.

“Nothing, my arse,” growled Bill.

Charlie stripped off his shirt.  He bent Ron’s arm and used the shirt to bind it to his body.  

Ron was trying to get away again.  “Leggo, you did your bit…I’m fine!” Charlie cuffed his head lightly and continued binding the arm.

Fred came over with the pieces of Bill’s broken broomstick.  “Looks like we lost another one,” he said, tossing one piece and catching it.  Unless you can fix it, Charlie.”

“Never fix a broken broom,” said Charlie.  “You know that.”

“Why not,” asked Dean.  He and Ginny were back, Ginny now on Ron’s broomstick.

“Does something to the balance,” said George, “according to Chuck, here.  They never fly quite right after they’ve been broken.  Fred and I fixed one once and it would only fly in circles.  We rather liked it that way.”

They had all started back to the house.  The sun was starting to set.  It lit the hillocks and tall pines on Stoathead Hill seemed almost to be burning.

“Mum will have something for the pain, Ron,” Bill said.  

“Don’t want anything,” said Ron.  His face was flushed and his eyes over-bright.  “Come on, let’s get something to eat.”  

Harry saw Charlie and Bill exchange looks.  

“Sure, kiddo,” said Bill, narrowing his eyes at Ron.  “We just ate, but what the hell, right?”

Ron led the way, bouncing.  Bill was right behind him, the blood drying and darkening on his grim face.


	8. Chapter 8

  
Author's notes:

This is a serial, updated about once a week...just a friendly heads-up for people who prefer to read finished pieces.

Betaed by [Brumeux77](http://astele.co.uk/TheQuidditchPitch/Chapter/Details/viewuser.php?uid=1234)

* * *

They stormed into the kitchen then, banging open cupboards, pulling out the leftovers from dinner, along with bread, fruit, cheese and some pies Charlie found in a drawer that let out an icy blast of air when he opened it.

“What’s going on in here?” Mrs. Weasley came into the room.

“Nothing, Mum, just making a snack,” Bill answered.

Mrs. Weasley’s eyes darted over her children. She took in Ron and Bill’s bloody faces, Ron holding a piece of cheese between his teeth as he tried with one hand to slice bread from the loaf. She firmed her lips then clapped her hands. “A snack, right,” she said. “Well, let me see what I can find.” With a flick of her wand, she produced pumpkin juice, biscuits and sweet rolls. Boiled eggs and pickles sprang from the cupboards to the table.

Harry picked up a pear. He was just about to bite it when Bill caught his arm. “Harry,” he said in a low voice. “You okay? Ron hit you pretty hard.” Harry thought it was pretty funny that Bill was asking after him, considering the tall redhead’s face was bloody, his nose squashed and his eyes already blackening.

“I’m fine,” Harry managed before Mrs. Weasley came up to Bill.

“Clean your face,” she said briskly to her son, shoving a wet flannel into his hands. “You’ll put Harry off his food. And sit down and let me fix your nose. It’s swelling like a tomato.” Bill rolled his eyes at Harry as his mother pulled him over to the bench, yelling over her shoulder, “GO PUT ON A SHIRT, CHARLES WEASLEY, NO ONE BUT YOU IS IMPRESSED WITH YOUR DRAGON MUSCLES!”

 

For the rest of the evening, Ron was the Ron Harry had always known. Or maybe Ron under the influence of a heavy-handed cheering charm. He was more than a bit manic. He wriggled out of Charlie’s sling, wrapped it around his head like a turban. He laughed, chattered like a squirrel and told some of the worst jokes Harry had ever heard. He jumped up and down on the couch nearly breaking the springs, he teased Ginny and Dean and got Charlie and the twins into a wedgie war (the twins conceded defeat when Charlie hung George over a coathook by the back of his y-fronts). Ron was noticeably favoring his shoulder, holding his right arm crooked and stiff against his ribs, but refused any pain medication. Mrs. Weasley, Charlie and Ginny all seemed to want to insist, but Bill ruffled Ron’s hair and said, “Hey, he says he doesn’t need it. He should know, shouldn’t he?” Bill looked at Harry and Harry nodded.

 

* * *********************************************************************

It must hurt like hell, Harry thought later as he watched Ron take on Dean, Charlie, then Bill at chess. His friend was unable to keep the occasional hitch out of his breath and he seemed to be moving carefully. But his humor was still fine and he was so animated, Harry was beginning to get a bit of a headache. He thought he knew now how Hedwig felt when Pig was around. The Weasleys, however, all seemed vastly relieved and unwilling to go to bed. Mrs. Weasley even decided, despite the late hour, to bake a cake.

Soon she was muttering into a pot on the stove, glancing at directions in Witch Weekly. “This cake is supposed to rise during the stirring,” she said, irritably, “but it doesn’t seem to be working.”

Ron, on his way for another snack, glanced at the recipe over his mother’s shoulder. “No, Mum,” he said, “you’re stirring wrong.”

“What on earth are you on about?” said Mrs. Weasley, staring at him. “I should think I know how to stir by now.”

“Look,” said Ron, pointing at the page. “It says stir in a figure eight, starting with an anticlockwise stroke. You’re starting with a clockwise stroke.”

Mrs. Weasley looked the directions, frowning. “So I am,” she said. Ron put his left hand over hers and together they stirred the pattern.

“For heaven’s sake,” Mrs. Weasley said, studying the batter. “It’s certainly seems to be working right now.”

“Let me show you something else, Mum,” Ron said. “At the end of your eight, just give a twist with your wrist, like this.” He showed her, then gave her the spoon back, sticking his finger in the batter before he left.

Mrs. Weasley stared open-mouthed at her youngest son. He popped his finger in his mouth as he went over to the table to cut another slice of bread. He piled the bread with cheese, apples and crunched up crisps, leaving a trail of crumbs behind as he went back to the couch by the fire. Mrs. Weasley said nothing. She turned back to her batter and stirred, twisting her wrist as Ron had shown her. “Oh,” she said in surprise as the battered fluffed up instantly.

When the cake had finished cooking and was cooling, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley at last decided to go to bed. Mrs. Weasley hugged and kissed them all good night. Mindful of his shoulder, she only patted Ron, but kissed him on the head a few times before he pulled away, grousing.

With her parents gone, Ginny and Dean seemed suddenly exhausted as well.

“Well, I’m off to bed,” said Ginny.

Dean yawned hugely. “Er, me too,” he said.

The two mounted the stairs, giggling and pushing each other. “I wonder what they’re up to,” George mused.

“Charades?” suggested Fred. “Exploding Snap?”

“Excellent,” said George. “What do you say, bro? Shall we monitor?” His eyebrows went up and down.”

”Oh, right,” said Fred, enthusiastically. “We might catch some interesting sounds.” He turned to look at Harry. “We’ve got a new prototype. Extendible ears that can record as well as listen in.”

“Just when I think they can’t get any weirder,” Ron muttered.

The twins waited until Ginny and Dean were out of sight, then followed quietly. Harry decided that, in the event he was fortunate enough to have sex, George and Fred would be the last to know.

When the twins were gone, Ron turned to face Charlie and Bill. “I’m not taking any sleeping draught tonight,” he announced.”

Bill looked at Charlie. Charlie was on duty tonight, Harry realized.

“S’up to you, kiddo,” Charlie said lightly to Ron.

Bill nodded but Harry frowned. What was happening to Ron, he wondered. Why was he giving his mother cooking lessons…and that fall…hadn’t anyone else noticed? While Dean had grabbed frantically at his broom, Ron hadn’t even tried for his. He had thrown his head back and his arms wide, freefalling, it seemed to Harry, as though he thought he could fly.

* * *********************************************************************

Unlike Charlie, Bill didn’t snore like a dragon with a head cold. Still, Harry couldn’t sleep, lying in Percy’s room with the older wizard in a bed he could have touched if he’d put out his arm. Bill was motionless under a thin sheet, his face turned away from Harry. Harry liked the way Bill’s hair (brown rather than red in the dark) spread on the pillow. He like the flat plane of his cheek, which he could see when he raised his head, the line of his jaw. The shoulder closest to Harry looked like polished wood, catching light from the full moon hung outside the window.

Harry squirmed, sighed, wriggled till the bedcovers were wrapped about his knees, before he gave up on the idea of sleeping. He was afraid he would wake Bill anyway. He got out of bed and padded downstairs in his bare feet, t-shirt and pajama bottoms. Pushing open the kitchen door, he went out in the garden to sit on a bench. He looked up at the night sky, where the stars were washed out by the nearly vulgar brightness of the moon. There was going to be an Order meeting at the Burrow, “as soon as Remus is well enough and Albus is back from Beauxbatons,” he’d heard Mrs. Weasley tell Bill and Charlie earlier in the day.

“We’ll both come,” Bill had answered, “Harry can keep an eye on Ron.”

“Isn’t that a little much to ask of Harry,” Mrs. Weasley had seemed concerned.

“Naw, Harry’s better with Ron than anyone,” Bill had answered. “I want to talk to Dumbledore about this whole thing anyway.”

“It’s about time we did,” I suppose,” Mrs. Weasley had sighed. “I just hate that’s it’s come to this. Poor man has enough on his plate and Ron was so adamant we not talk to Albus.”

“I think we’re going to have to go over Ron’s head,” had been Bill’s response. “This has gone on long enough.”

In the garden, Harry sighed. He wasn’t so sure about Bill’s conviction that he could look after Ron. He was glad Bill was turning the matter over to Dumbledore. If any one could help his friend, the old headmaster could.

Suddenly Harry stiffened. He’d heard a footfall on the other side of the privet hedge. Harry put his hand back for his wand before he realized he’d left it upstairs in Percy’s old room.

He heard a match strike, smelled its sulphur scent. Deciding a Death Eater would hardly stop for a leisurely smoke before mounting an attack, much less light a Muggle match, Harry relaxed. Smoke curled over the hedges. It smelled sweet and funny.

“Bill?”

From the side of the privets, he heard Bill swear. “Harry? Scared the shit out of me.” Bill’s bare feet crunched on the grass as he came around the privets and plopped down on the garden bench next to Harry. “Wondered where you’d gotten to, kiddo.”

“You smoke cigarettes?” Harry was surprised. “That’s rather Muggle of you.”

“Something I picked up in Egypt.” Bill blew out a long stream of smoke. “Besides, this isn’t a Muggle cig, Harry.”

“Oh,” said Harry. “Is it dope, then?” His voice sounded young and silly, he thought.

“It’s hash, Harry, but not Muggle hash.” Bill took a strong pull, held it. “More mellow than the Muggle stuff. Relaxes you, but doesn’t make you paranoid.”

“Can I have some?”

Bill raised an eyebrow at Harry. Then he shrugged, let out his smoke and handed the joint to Harry.

Harry put the joint cautiously to his lips and inhaled lightly. He’d smoked once in the Quidditch showers with Fred and George after a practice. It had been Muggle dope and Harry had sworn to the twins he didn’t feel a thing but then he’d started giggling helplessly when Wood, who had come back for something, walked in on them. “For crying out loud,” Wood had yelled. “It’s bad enough my Beaters are stoners, now you’re corrupting my Seeker!” Harry had clapped his hand over his mouth, trying to keep his snorts and guffaws in. “Just look at him,” Wood had screamed, going red. “You mess with him and we’ll never win another game, let alone the house cup.” Harry had laughed till he cried because Oliver Wood, with his face purpled and the vein throbbing in his head, looked just like Uncle Vernon.

In the garden a little while later, Harry sighed and said, “You’re right, you know.”

“Right about what?” asked Bill, his face tilted up, eyes closed.

“About everything,” said Harry, giggling a little. He felt giddy, silly. He swung his feet under the bench, liking the way the grass brushed his bare toes. “But mainly,” he went on, “about wizard hash being more mellow than the Muggle stuff.” He tried to hide the silly smile spreading on his face. “Do you suppose Luna Lovegood goes through life feeling this way?” He snickered, thinking of Luna and her father having a smoke together and chatting about Crumple-Horned Snorkacks.

Bill had one eyebrow arched. He looked amused. “Who is Luna Lovegood?” he asked.

“Ravenclaw,” said Harry, as if that explained everything. “Sort of cute and daft. She calls Ron Ronald.”

“Ah,” said Bill. He tapped the joint out on the underside of the bench. “He hates being called Ronald. Hates Bilius too…can’t imagine why…pretty sucky middle name…”

“What’s your middle name?” Harry suddenly had to know. He looked up intently into Bill’s eyes.

“Robert,” said Bill. He slipped the joint away somewhere. “We can’t leave these out,” he explained to Harry.

“So your mum won’t find them?”

“Sure, Mum, too,” Bill grinned. “But mainly it’s the garden gnomes. Can’t let garden gnomes find hash. They like to eat it and it makes them crazy…I swear, it’s worse than catnip…of course the twins will do it on purpose. You come out in the morning and find gnomes running around and humping each other…”

Harry burst into giggles. Oops, way way too high-pitched. He stopped himself and cleared his throat. “So your name is William Robert?” Now his voice sounded way too low.

“Yep,” said Bill, looking sideways at him. “Know what my American cousins call me? Billy-Bob.”

“Billy-Bob?” Harry cocked his head. “Why?”

Bill shrugged. “No idea.”

Harry swung his feet happily. He’d been sure he’d never feel happy again…this summer at the Dursley’s…after Sirius’ death…but sitting here in the garden, shoulder to shoulder with Bill, he felt a dangerous bubble in his chest…something close to joy. He nudged Bill with his elbow and beamed up at him.

Bill looked down at him, the red hair sliding forward to frame his handsome face. “All right then, Harry?”

“Yeah.” Harry felt his face split into a grin. He was all right, all right. In fact, he was pretty sure he felt wonderful…wonderful, but a little strange. His nose tingled and his lips were numb and he had some rather bold thoughts dancing in his head. He was thinking of Bill and the way he’d touched Ron the other night and the way he touched Harry on the stairs and how he’d like for Bill to touch him right now. There was just a little something he needed to straighten out first. “Bill,” he said, trying (and not quite succeeding) to wipe the goofy smile off his face. “I need to get something clear…you don’t think of me as another younger brother, do you?

“No,” Bill said rather flatly. He looked away from Harry. “I don’t think of you that way, Harry.”

“Good,” said Harry. He swung one leg over, straddled the bench facing Bill. Bill continued to look away from Harry. He gazed frowning into some middle distance in the garden and for a moment he looked like Ron in the kitchen, gazing at something no one else could see. Finally he gave a strange laugh and said, “Is there a reason we need to be clear on this, Harry?”

Harry looked at Bill’s thigh, long and lean under his pajama bottoms. “Yes, there is,” he said, firmly. Bill’s thigh looked like it would be wonderful to touch so Harry reached over touched it. Bill’s leg jerked underneath his hand but Harry didn’t look up. He was too busy drawing an O with one finger, and feeling the warm skin of Bill’s thigh meet his finger through the thin cloth of his pajamas. “That a problem?” He drew another O. He never realized it could be so satisfying to draw Os.

“It might be a problem,” Bill answered. Harry looked up. Bill was gazing at him, his eyes were tawny and hot. His mouth was full and even in the bleaching light of the moon, pink. “I’m sorry, Harry, but it might be.”

“Okay,” said Harry. He looked back down at Bill’s thigh and drew a third O. “Why? Because of Fleur?”

“No,” said Bill, “Fleur’s great, but she’s never made any claim on me or asked me for any commitments…the real problems would be…” He paused, “Harry, what ARE you doing?”

Harry looked at his hand, it was still on Bill’s thigh. His finger, moving closer and closer to the crease of Bill’s hip, was linking the three Os he’d drawn on the redhead’s leg. “Erm…” Harry felt his face growing hot. “I seem to be playing naughts and crosses…”

“Naughts and crosses?”

“Yeah, it’s a Muggle game. See you’ve got a grid, like this…” Suddenly explaining naughts and crosses to Bill seemed to be the most fascinating thing in the world, more fascinating than Harry ever would have expected. He excitedly drew a grid on Bill’s thigh. “You’ve got your grid and then you’ve got these Xs and Os.” Harry drew an X in the center box, “and then…”

“Harry…”

Harry glanced up in surprise. Bill’s face was inches from his, his breath hot against Harry’s cheek and Harry could smell his skin. It smelled of wind and apples, sweat and the slightly cloying incense of hash.

Harry had thought he was ready but he but he realized he wasn’t ready when Bill kissed him. He wasn’t ready for how soft another person’s lips could be and how they could feel moving against his own. He wasn’t ready for the way his heart leapt, the way his stomach fluttered, the way his groin suddenly felt as if he’d spilled a cup of hot tea into his lap. Most of all he wasn’t ready for the way it felt to have Bill hold him hard against his chest. One of the redhead’s strong arms curled around the small of his back, its hand cupping his ribs. The other arm supported his spine, with the hand cradling the back of his head. Harry had never been held before. He never been held and kissed, but now he was being held and kissed and he didn’t know if he could ever bear to be let go.

Bill’s lips were soft and warm, his kiss somehow like a feather being drawn back and forth across Harry’s own lips. Harry’s lips weren’t numb anymore, in fact he was sure they had never been more sensitive. Bill deepened the kiss, opening Harry’s mouth with his own and Harry found himself winding his arms around the redhead’s neck.

The kiss seemed to go on forever and Harry soon felt like he’d been kissing longer than he’d been alive. Bill’s mouth completely covered his and Harry thought he’d never felt anything more sensual than Bill’s soft lips moving against his, hot and slippery, and Bill’s tongue lightly touching his. He broke the kiss, drawing in a shaky breath.

Bill looked at him, amused, aroused and fond. “Oh, Harry,” he said. “You’re a beautiful boy.”

Harry supposed that in another world he’d be embarrassed but in this world, the one in which he’d been kissing Bill as long as he’d been alive, he felt only wonderful. He moved in to kiss Bill again. Bill’s hands came up to cup his face as their lips touched. There was tenderness—Harry was sure he was only now even understanding what the word even meant—there was tenderness and a wild leaping joy like the joy he’d felt when he’d realized that Sirius had wanted him, had wanted to claim him, be a part of his life and give him a place to call home.

And yet this was altogether different than what he’d felt with Sirius. Sirius had been part father and part playmate. And Bill was…for Harry, Bill was just something beyond his experience. He tried to line it up with his feelings for Cho and it just didn’t fit. Cho had been a schoolboy’s crush, the kiss they’d shared, nerve-wracking and fumbling, not remotely erotic But this, whatever it was, was all consuming, it utterly erased absolutely everything else in the world. It was mouth and tongue, it tingled, stung sweetly. It was arms, a hot chest against his and the feeling that his brain had fallen out of the back of his head. With a sudden plunge of his heart, Harry wondered if he was falling in love.

Bill was now lowering him to the bench, kissing Harry’s neck while his thumbs rubbed Harry’s nipples through his t-shirt.

Harry gasped. His back touched the bench and he arched up trying to glue himself to Bill’s chest. Bill pushed him down and began kissing him again, kissing him deeply until Harry was limp and groaning.

Harry wrapped his legs around Bill’s waist. His hips were rocking and rocking, a motion they’d started on their own, quite independent of any instruction from Harry. His hips rocked and every time his groin bumped against Bill’s, the sensation, through his thin pajamas, was almost too intense, like he was pressing the most exquisite bruise.

Bill slipped his hands under Harry’s shirt. Harry moaned as Bill’s fingers gently moved over his ribs, lightly pinched his nipples. Bill kissed him hard, then soft, then hard again, teasing with his supple tongue. Harry began to grind his pelvis into Bill’s.

Bill growled and stood up suddenly, taking Harry, whose legs were still wrapped around his waist, with him. He set Harry gently on the grass, then, knelt before him. Harry’s glasses were hanging from one ear. Bill took them off, then, placed them on the stone bench. He turned back to face Harry and threw him a grin that was sweet and hungry as he stripped off his own shirt. Harry’s hands went out to see what it felt like, skin as golden and smooth as Bill’s. He stroked shoulders, put his palms over the peaked nipples, cupped the hard cage of rib bone.

Bill caught Harry’s hands and stilled them. He held the boy’s hands gently in his own, bringing each palm up to his lips. Harry didn’t know his palms were sensitive until Bill kissed them. He shuddered as the kisses leapt from his palms up his arms and down to his groin.

Bill reached for the hem of Harry’s shirt and pulled it over the boy’s head. Then he laid Harry back in the grass and lowered himself until his bare chest touched Harry’s. He rubbed their chests gently together before dipping his head to kiss Harry again.

Something caught in Harry’s chest. He felt as if he were cracking open. He grabbed Bill around the ribs, grasping and gasping. He was suddenly desperate, as if he couldn’t hang on hard enough. He lifted his head, trying to press his mouth hard into Bill’s, but Bill was playing a game now, pulling his head back and tormenting Harry with feather light kisses. Harry’s hips bucked frantically. He felt as if his skin were covered with horribly itchy scales that he had to rub off or go mad. He writhed wildly against Bill, rubbing their naked chests together, scrubbing his face against the stubble on Bill’s chin, opening his mouth against Bill’s neck.

“I want,” he gasped, “I want…” But he didn’t know what he wanted.

Bill did. He spread Harry out on the ground, spread him like a starfish. He made a starfish of his own body and lined it up with Harry’s. His naked chest was against Harry’s, his arms lay on top of Harry’s, his long legs held Harry’s open and their groins matched up perfectly. Bill’s mouth covered Harry’s and he gave him now the hard kiss Harry had wanted, holding the boy’s head down to the ground as his long hair fell over them both.

Harry bowed up, every bit of him touching a bit of Bill. He gasped, moaning into the redhead’s mouth. Brilliant, thought Harry, his hips jerking wildly. Bill seemed to understand he needed to push against something, to thrash, struggle and scour himself raw. All after, he’d seen horrors, pain, loss, jealously, hatred, death—ugly things that had worked their way under his skin, they pricked horribly from the inside. Now he was desperate to scrape them all off, strip them away before they drove him mad.

Bill held on and let the weight of his body do its work. Harry writhed and twisted, he cried out into Bill’s mouth, rubbing frantically against Bill, grinding and humping not knowing exactly what he was after until his back, bum and shoulders clenched and lifted completely off the ground.

He pulled away from Bill’s mouth. “Bill,” he croaked, “I’m going to come.”

“I should certainly hope so,” murmured Bill before pressing him back with another a kiss.

So Harry did come, violently, shuddering, kicking, moaning and pushing up even more desperately into Bill’s hard body.

For a long moment, he hung there, still curved against Bill, then he fell back against the ground. Bill was still moving, thrusting against him. Every time Bill moved, Harry felt it, the sweet bruise, and the tingling in his groin, in the pucker of his anus, his nipples, his palms and the soles of his feet.

And he was undone, simply undone. Harry looked up at Bill, his beautiful face turned to the side, wild and raw, and he was undone. All the strings and knots that held him together went flying apart. Something hard and cold bit into his heart while another thing, jagged and ripping, forced its way out of his gut. Harry tried to fold over it, to keep it in, but he was trapped under Bill’s weight. Helpless he turned his face into the redhead’s neck. As the first keening sounds left him, he was aware of Bill casting charms, silencing spells, cleaning spells, he was aware of sobbing, struggling, fingers digging into the ground. It was everything he feared…the walls he’d built so carefully were nothing now but sand, crumbling away and leaving him helpless. A wave of images overwhelmed him. Cedric, on the ground, unmoving, gray eyes blank…Wormtail carrying the bundle of rags that was his master, raising a dagger over Harry’s bound arm…Sirius, horrified, as the veil closed over him…the ugly slits of Voldemort’s face, his mother screamed and screamed.

Harry’s fingers, clawing in the dirt, made contact with cloth…either his or Bill’s shirt. He grabbed it up, pressed it to his mouth with curled fists as he silently wailed. He realized he was sitting up now, he was in Bill’s lap and Bill was holding him as he wept into the shirt, sobs wracking his body, rolling through him from his gut to his shoulders, which jerked and wrenched quite beyond his control. It was the moment he’d been afraid of all summer. He had gone over the edge on which he’d teetered for months. He wept, fearing he’d never be able to stop.

But he did stop. Eventually. Bit by hiccupping bit. Finally he sat up in Bill’s lap and wiped his face with the shirt. “I’m glad that’s over,” he tried to say. He felt his mouth move, but no words came out.

Seeing Harry was trying to talk, Bill lifted the silencing spell. “What is it, love?” he said, gently.

“I said, I’m glad that’s over.”

“What’s over?” Bill looked at him, concerned but slightly amused.

“The crying thing,” said Harry, blushing. “You know, Sirius and all…I was afraid to do it, because, erm, I guess I thought once I started, I’d never stop…and I’d just be crazy, crying forever…does that sound strange?”

“Nah,” said Bill, one hand in the middle of Harry’s back, the other stroking his hair. “You probably just waited for a safe place. Maybe the Dursleys would have packed you off to some mental ward, if you couldn’t stop crying…here, well, we’d just keep hitting you with calming spells until you were as limp as a noodle.”

“I am as limp as a noodle,” Harry said. He lay slack against Bill.

“Weren’t a minute ago,” Bill laughed.

“Oh,” said Harry, suddenly embarrassed. His cheeks burned. “Was that the weirdest sex you’ve ever had, Bill? Was it even sex?”

Bill laughed harder. “No, Harry, it definitely wasn’t the weirdest sex I’ve ever had. And yes, it definitely was sex and it was lovely.”

“But you didn’t even come,” Harry protested.

“Didn’t I?” Bill was grinning wickedly. “I cleaned the same mess off the front of my pajamas that I cleaned off of yours.”

“Oh,” said Harry, his face grew even hotter.

Bill smiled and shook his head. He gathered Harry up again and kissed his face, eye lids, forehead, cheeks and lips. He rocked him soothingly. He ran his fingers through Harry’s spiky black hair and pulled gently on the white forelock. Then he rolled them both to the ground. “Now then,” he arranged them so Harry’s back was to his front and his long form curled protectively around the boy. He took the shirt (it was his) from Harry’s hands and threw it up into the air, transfiguring it into a soft blanket that fell over the two of them. Harry’s shirt, he transfigured into a big, squashy pillow.

Exhausted, Harry felt himself falling backward into the dark. With Bill’s arms around him, he was safe and comfortable and content. This would be a good place to stay forever, he thought as he dropped off into deepest sleep he’d never known.  



	9. Chapter 9

  
Author's notes:

This is a serial, updated about once a week...just a friendly heads-up for people who prefer to read finished pieces.

Betaed by [Brumeux77](http://astele.co.uk/TheQuidditchPitch/Chapter/Details/viewuser.php?uid=1234)

* * *

When Harry awoke hours later, the sky had lightened to gray.  It was nearly dawn.  He was warm and sleepy and happy.  He snuggled deeper into Bill’s arms.

Bill sighed and tightened his embrace.

Harry was falling back into sleep when something tugged at his mind.  “Bill,” he said, shaking the redhead lightly.

“Hmm?” Bill didn’t seem inclined to wake up.

“We better get up,” Harry said reluctantly.  “Ron might be out running.  I don’t really want him to find us like this.”

“No,” Bill sighed again.  “I guess I better talk to him.  He’s gonna be pissed at me.”

“Why?” Harry was confused.

Bill never answered.  Instead he sat up bolt right.  “Holy shit,” he whispered.  He was staring up into the air.

Harry looked up too and froze in shock.  Way above their heads, Ron was standing in the air.  Five stories up, and outside his bedroom window, he was floating in the morning sky, encircled by a soft green glow.

* * *

Harry and Bill crept up the stairs.  They had agreed to make as little noise as possible.  “Who knows,” said Bill.  “If he wakes up suddenly, he might fall.”

When they reached the room, they cautiously opened the door.  Charlie was at the window, his wand drawn.  “Accio,” they heard him say.  The green light around Ron wavered.  “Come on, Ron, ACCIO,” Charlie muttered, obviously straining.

Harry drew in a sharp breath.

Charlie turned around.  His face was red and sweaty.  “Help me, Bill,” he panted.  “Don’t know what that green stuff is, but I can’t budge him.”

Bill and Harry went quickly to the window, next to Charlie.  Bill lifted his wand and murmured the summoning spell.  Together the brothers concentrated, Charlie closing his eyes as a bead of sweat rolled down his temple.

“Accio,” said a voice.  Harry looked behind him to see Arthur Weasley in the doorway, glasses askew and thin red wisps standing up on his head, as he pointed his wand at his youngest son.

Slowly Ron began to draw backwards toward the window.  As he came close to the house, Bill dropped his wand and put his arms around his brother’s waist.  Charlie and Mr. Weasley kept summoning until Ron was back in his bedroom.

Charlie and Mr. Weasley lowered their wands and Ron hovered in the air with the soft green light encircling him, turning his skin a nasty, sickish color.  He was as wet with sweat as if he’d been running.  His eyes were open and unfocused and he was muttering to himself again, this time so softly Harry couldn’t make out the words.

“What is that stuff?” Bill asked, softly.

“Finite Incantatum,” Mr. Weasley tried.  The green light crackled around Ron, then, it popped and died.  Ron slumped to the floor like a broken doll.  Bill caught him before he hit the floor.

“Shit,” said Charlie as Bill sank to the floor, cradling Ron against him.

Ron’s eyes opened.  He stared past his brothers, his father and Harry to his mother who stood thin-lipped and tense in the doorway.

“Annabelle really hates you,” he said.

“Annabelle Flint is dead,” snapped Mrs. Weasley, her arms crossed.

“You’re dead, too,” said Ron.  His eyes rolled up in his head and he went limp in Bill’s arms.

 

* * ******************************************************************

All hell pretty much broken loose in Ron’s bedroom after that.

Bill and Charlie were shouting at each other.  “How did you ever let him get that far!” yelled Bill.

“You might have told me he was levitating,” Charlie yelled back.  “I would have bloody well sat on him all night.”

“He could have killed himself!”  Bill’s face was red and splotchy.  “You should have been awake!”

“I was awake!” Charlie screamed.  “He was just too damn strong.  He was out the window before I could even slow him down.”

“OUT THE WINDOW!”  Harry turned at the sound of George’s loud voice.  He was standing behind his mother on the landing.  With him were Fred, Ginny and Dean.

“Excuse me, did you say levitating?” Fred, eyebrows up in his hairline, sounded incredulous.

“How does he know about Annabelle Flint,” asked Mr. Weasley, loudly, frowning over at his wife.

“Who is Annabelle Flint?” screamed Ginny.

A sudden silence fell over the room.

“Annabelle Flint is a dead bitch,” stated Mrs. Weasley, flatly.  “George, Fred, did you say you brought something?”

“In the bedroom, Mum,” answered Fred.

“MUM!” Bill shouted.  “You can’t just drug him without his permission!”

“DON’T YOU DARE TELL ME WHAT TO DO, WILLIAM WEASLEY,” screamed Mrs. Weasley, whirling to face her eldest son.  She had clearly reached her limit.  “NO ONE IS GOING RUNNING TONIGHT!  NO ONE IS GOING ANYWHERE UNTIL I HAVE SOME ANSWERS!  GO GET THAT POTION, FRED…AND YOU STAY RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE, BILL…I’VE SAT BY LONG ENOUGH AND LET YOU HAVE YOUR WAY…YOU ARE IN OVER YOUR HEAD…”

“We’re all in over our heads,” said Arthur Weasley, looking back and forth between his wife and Bill.  “It’s time we got help.”

“Not St. Mungo’s, Dad,” said Bill, sounding defeated.  He slumped back against the wall, looking down at Ron’s limp form.

“ST. MUNGO’S IS EXACTLY WHERE HE NEEDS TO GO!”  Mrs. Weasley’s face was beet red.  “WHAT ARE YOU ON ABOUT, NOT ST. MUNGO’S…THERE ARE HEALERS WHO CAN HELP…”

“Mrs. Weasley,” Harry said meekly.  Mrs. Weasley rounded on him.  He took a step back.  She was really quite scary when she was in one of her rages.  “Uh, Ron’s scared of St. Mungo’s…when we were there when Mr. Weasley had his snake bite…” Harry nodded at his friend’s father…“we ran into the Longbottoms.  Ron’s worried he’ll be put into a locked ward like them.”

“The Longbottoms?” Mrs. Weasley looked aghast.  “Why would Ron think he’d end up in a ward with people who have lost their minds because of the Cruciatus Curse?”  Her voice started to rise again.  “IT DOESN’T MAKE ANY SENSE…”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Weasley,” said Harry, helplessly.  “I only know that he told me he’d run away…”

“That’s all we need,” Charlie muttered.  “Ron running away again…”

“What?” Shocked, Harry turned toward the big redhead.

“I certainly thought I’d never see him levitate again either,” said Mr. Weasley.

“He’s levitated before?”  Now Harry’s mouth hung open.  He glanced at Ron, who lay lifeless in Bill’s lap, red hair spilling wildly.  He’d thought he knew everything about his best friend.

“It was a long time ago,” said Mr. Weasley.  “And what he’s doing now…well, I’m not sure it’s levitating….it looks more like sky climbing…”

Harry looked back and forth between Bill and Mr. Weasley.  “What in the world is sky climbing?”

“It’s a very obscure art,” said Mr. Weasley, sighing and sitting down on Ron’s bed.  He motioned to his wife and patted the space next to him, but Mrs. Weasley, still angry, folded her arms and pointedly looked away.  “Wizards used to do it all the time,” Mr. Weasley went on, “back, Merlin, eons ago…but when broom riding became the practice…faster, more efficient, you know…it fell out of favor.  Very few wizards know how to sky climb these days.  It’s the kind of thing you see at a carnival or sideshow, performers who call themselves aerialists…it’s complicated magic, very different from levitating or hovering….and it’s also associated somewhat,” Mr. Weasley winced, “with the dark arts…”

“Now Arthur,” Mrs. Weasley interrupted tersely, glaring at her husband.  “Let’s not go jumping to conclusions about sky climbing and dark arts.  Ronnie needs to be seen by a healer, and quickly.”

“Mum,” Bill said warningly from the floor.  “Don’t do anything to Ron…don’t take him anywhere without talking to him first…”

“BILL WEASLEY,” snapped Mrs. Weasley, “I HAVE HEARD JUST ABOUT ENOUGH FROM YOU!  RON IS IN NO SHAPE TO MAKE DECISIONS…”

“Molly!” said Mr. Weasley sharply.  “Stop it!”  Wearily, he got up from the bed and went to stand next to his wife.  “I know you’re worried, dear,” he went on, gently.  “But Bill’s right.  Think about it…Ron doesn’t trust us… for heavens’ sake, he can hardly stand to be in the same room with us.  I don’t know why, exactly, and now that’s he’s mentioned Annabelle Flint, I hardly know what to think…”  Mrs. Weasley snorted, and shook her head angrily.  “We’ve got to get to the bottom of this, Molly,” Mr. Weasley went on, “…but we’ve also got to get our son to trust us again…and that’s not going to happen if we yank him off to St. Mungo’s where’s he’s clearly afraid to go…”

Mrs. Weasley’s lower lip trembled.   She stepped away from her husband and folded her arms again.

“Mum…” said Bill and Charlie at the same time.  Ginny and George had their mouths open too, about to speak.

“Oh stop it!” snapped Mrs. Weasley.  “Everyone stop it right now!  I merely said Ron needs to see a healer, I wasn’t about to Floo him over to St. Mungo’s behind your backs, for heavens’ sake.  But Arthur,” now she wheeled to face her husband again.  “Can’t we at least talk to Poppy?  Now?”

“I think that might be a good idea,” ventured Harry, almost afraid to speak.  “Madam Pomfrey did give him something at school, Dr. Ubbly’s something or the other…It seemed to work there…he didn’t have any trouble at school…he was sleeping fine and no dreams as far as I know…”

“We can’t afford Ubbly’s Oblivious Unction!” Mrs. Weasley sounded somewhat hysterical.  “Arthur! If he needs Obliviating--”

“NO, MUM!  You can’t do that!” shouted Bill.

“SHUT UP, BILL,” screamed Mrs. Weasley.  “I’m not going to Obliviate anyone.  A proper healer--”

“Molly,” said Mr. Weasley, sighing.  “We agreed, no healers just yet…Poppy will give us some of the unction, don’t worry.  I’ll go see if I can catch her on the Floo, right now.”  When his wife nodded curtly, Mr. Weasley gave her a one-armed hug, then squeezed out of the room.  On the landing he stopped a moment to hug Ginny, who was absolutely whey-faced, and pat George and Dean on the shoulder.  Then Harry heard his quick footsteps on the stair.

“Mum?”

Fred was back.  He pushed his way into Ron’s bedroom, which was already crowded with Bill, Ron, Harry and Charlie, the cot, and Mrs. Weasley filling the doorway.  He held up a vial.  “This is the stuff George and I brewed up.”  Mrs. Weasley’s eyes narrowed as she looked sharply at the little vial.

“Ron’s a bit hyper,” Fred explained.  “Most of the sleep potions on the market tend to aggravate any form of hyperactivity, especially testosterone-based hyperactivity.”  Harry gaped at the twin, shocked.  Fred sounded some kind of mad pharmacist.  “Anyway,” Fred went on, “George and I messed around with the basic sleep draught ingredients…we halved the eel bile and took out the salvia of newt all together…that’s the stuff that tends to play havoc with the adrenal glands...George and I know, because, well, we’re a bit hyper ourselves…and when we tested the ingredients separately, the saliva of newt was the one that had us bouncing off the ceiling…”

“It made us pee a lot too,” put in George, helpfully.

“You boys…” Mrs. Weasley rubbed the worry spot between her eyebrows.  “Those minds of yours…when I think about what you could be doing, oh, never mind…go on.”

“Anyway,” George now pushed into the room and came to stand next to Fred. “What really makes the potion work is the bit of belladonna we added…oh, don’t look at us like that, Bill, We’re not trying to poison him…Fred and I have taken this stuff more times than we can count.”

“Maybe you can’t count very high,” said Bill sourly, looking at the twins.

“Ha ha, very funny, Head Boy,” said Fred.  “Look, Bill, we wouldn’t mess around with Ron…I mean, obviously, we would, but not when it’s something serious.  We made this stuff for ourselves while we were still at Hogwarts…we could never sleep before games…We tried regular sleeping potions and they drove us mad…Lee Jordan had to take us to the infirmary one night because we were breaking out in rashes and having heart palpitations…sorry, Mum,” (Mrs. Weasley had sighed) “…anyway, once we made this stuff…,” he nodded at the vial “we slept like babies…”

“Give it to me,” commanded Mrs. Weasley.

Fred handed her the little vial…”just a touch, Mum.”  Mrs. Weasley stalked over to Ron and Bill and knelt on the floor.  “Ron,” she said, sternly, patting his cheek, “Ron…Sit him up, Bill.”

Bill tugged Ron gently up.

“Wake up, Ron,” said Mrs. Weasley, slapping his cheek this time.  Ron’s head fell limply forward.  “Oh, it’s no use,” she sighed.  “Charlie…give me your wand.  Ennervate!”

Ron started.  His eyes flickered open.  He looked at his mother and groaned.  He turned his head away from her.

“Ronald Weasley, you look at me.”  Mrs. Weasley’s voice was hard.  “You look at me this instant, I don’t care what Annabelle Flint told you.”

“Not Annabelle,” Ron spat back.  His voice was as hard as his mother’s.  “Her husband, Gerard.

“Fine,” said Mrs. Weasley.  “Gerard.  I’m not going to let two dead Death Eaters take my son away from me.  You need sleep, you’re making yourself sick and honestly, you’re making the rest of us sick too.  Now I want you to take this.”

“MUM, NO!”  Ron sat up struggling when he saw the vial in Mrs. Weasley’s hand.  “Let me go, Bill…Mum!  It’s when I’m sleeping that they’re the worst.”  He looked around frantically.  His eyes lit on Harry.  “’Arry, tell her, what it’s like…the dreams, when they come in dreams…it’s like I don’t have any control and…and Gerard wants to kill you, Mum!”  His eyes were wide with alarm.

“Gerard Flint has already tried to kill me,” said Mrs. Weasley testily.  “He failed.  And furthermore, he’s dead.  He can’t hurt me now.  And neither can you.  You haven’t hurt anyone all summer, no one but yourself.  Now drink it, Ronald.”

Ron desperately looked at Harry.  Harry didn’t know what to say.  He didn’t know whether to tell Ron to take the potion or not.  It might have helped him when Voldemort had been invading his dreams, but he didn’t think his dreams were anything like Ron’s, and he certainly hadn’t wandered out of any windows when he was asleep.  Cautiously, he stepped forward in the tiny room and went down on his knees next to his friend.  He put his hand on Ron’s arm.  “I don’t know what you should do,” he said.  “But if you do take it, I’ll stay with you and make sure you don’t do any harm to anyone.  Tell me where your wand is,” he said urgently.  “We’ll hide it…”

“All ready took care of that,” Ron said roughly.

Bill had his hand on Ron’s uninjured shoulder.  “Where’s your wand, Ronnie?” he asked.

“Sent it to Hermione…at the beginning of the summer…when all this stuff started happening.”  Ron was still staring at the potion his mother was stubbornly holding out to him.  “Mum, I’m not taking that.”

“Ron,” George now knelt too.  Harry budged over.  He was crowded up against the cot.  “Fred and I have taken this stuff loads of times.  And we never dreamed once.  You’ll be okay.”

“We promise,” said Fred.  “No tricks.”

“Ronald, drink it.  Now.”  Mrs. Weasley wasn’t giving an inch.

Ron pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs.  Fine,” he said, hotly.  He looked angrier than Harry had ever seen him.  “Give it here.”

“Ron,” Harry said, desperately.  “I’ll promise I’ll stay…”

“I will too,” said Bill.

“How much, Fred?” asked Mrs. Weasley.

“Just a small capful.”

Mrs. Weasley filled the cap to the brim.  “Go on, Ron,” she said.

Ron looked Mrs. Weasley in the eye, took the cap, swallowed the potion angrily.

“Good,” said Mrs. Weasley.  “Now take off that shirt, you’re sweating like a pig, and Merlin knows it needs laundering.  We’ll get you something with short sleeves and have done with this nonsense.”

Ron crossed his arms over his chest.

“Fine,” said Mrs. Weasley, her temper rising.  “It’s not like I can’t get it off myself.  Give me that wand back, Charlie...”

“Calm down, Mum,” said Bill. He squeezed Ron’s good shoulder.  “Come on, Ron, time to come clean.  We all know you’re hiding something…take off your shirt and let’s just get it over with.”

Ron sighed.  He was silent a long moment, then, started to pull his shirt over his head.  Halfway through, he stopped, letting a groan slip.

“Shoulder hurt?” asked Bill.

Ron nodded, took a deep breath.  Bill helped him pull the shirt the rest of the way off.

For the second time, all hell broke loose in Ron’s bedroom.

“Oh, Ronnie,” wailed Ginny.  She pushed her way into the room, pulling Dean by the hand.

“Holy shit,” murmured Charlie.

“For heavens’ sake.” Mrs. Weasley looked horrified, Bill swore and Fred, George, Dean and Harry simply gaped.

“Go on, everybody,” snarled Ron.  He got to his knees and spread his arms wide.  “Get in a long good gawk.”

And everybody did.  They stared in horror at Ron’s forearms and chest.  The scars from the brain’s tentacles were there, wrapped around his forearms and reaching across his chest.  On top of the scars were hot livid weals like puffed angry mouths.  The weals were red and swollen, each one seemed to have a black slit at the top.

“What the hell?”  Charlie reached out a finger.  But he stopped short of touching Ron.

“I cut myself,” said Ron furiously.  “I cut myself…with a knife.  I’m mental, okay?  Everybody happy now?”

“Cut yourself?” On the floor, next to his friend, Harry couldn’t tear his eyes away from the angry marks on his body.  “Why?”

“Don’t you see?” Ron said, distraught.  “Gerard hates pain.  When there’s pain, he goes away.”

“Oh,” The dislocated shoulder—Harry felt a light bulb go on in his head.  “And the running...”

“He’s a lazy bastard,” Ron answered.  “Doesn’t like exerting himself.”

“But how…” said Bill.  He was staring fixedly at the wounds on his brother’s arms and chest.  “There would have been blood…I’ve been…we’ve all been watching you…how in the world did we miss the blood?”

“The cuts…I healed them before they could bleed.” Ron said.  He snatched up his discarded shirt and covered himself now that every one had had their look.  “There are ways of cutting flesh so it doesn’t bleed.  There are ways of healing the surface flesh so there’s no blood but the pain is just as sharp.”

“Get him a fresh shirt, George,” Mrs. Weasley snapped.  Her face had gone white, even her lips were colorless.

“But how did you do it, Ron?”  Bill was stunned.  “Without your wand…”

“Simple kitchen herbs,” Ron, pulling on the white t-shirt George handed him.  “Ow…fuck!  Dammit, Bill, I don’t need help…”  He paused panting, as he yanked the shirt down over his chest.  “It can be done with stuff Mum keeps in the cupboards and in the garden.  Gerard knew how to do it.  Now I know too.  He put it in my head…along with a lot of other shit I don’t want.”  He glared darkly at his mother when he said this.  Harry stomach went cold.  He’d never seen Ron so angry, so bitter and he certainly never seen him look at his mother like he absolutely hated her.


	10. Chapter 10

  
Author's notes:

This is a serial, updated about once a week...just a friendly heads-up for people who prefer to read finished pieces.

Betaed by [Brumeux77](http://astele.co.uk/TheQuidditchPitch/Chapter/Details/viewuser.php?uid=1234)

* * *

Harry had said he would stay, Bill had say he would stay, but in the end, no one left the tiny, orange bedroom.  Bill and Harry sat on the floor with Ron, Ginny, Dean and Fred sat on the cot, Charlie and George leaned against the window sill and Mrs. Weasley took up a position in the doorway, as though she would block anyone who tried to leave. Everyone sat staring at their hands, at the walls, and the room, already hot, grew stifling until Charlie suddenly shook himself and cast a cooling charm.  The Chudley Cannons players had gawked and pointed until George told them sharply to bugger off, causing them to climb huffily back on their broomsticks and began their usual swooping.

Harry remembered sitting with the Weasleys when Mr. Weasley had been in St. Mungo’s with his snake bite.  He had been acutely uncomfortable, then, feeling like he and Sirius were intruding upon the family grief.  It was different now, so much had changed since then…Sirius was gone…and without him, there was no one left to challenge the Weasley’s claim to him…and with Ron being his best friend, Harry felt he had as much right to be here as anyone else.  He glanced over at Ron.  The redhead was clearly fighting the potion.  He was sitting bolt upright, tense, with his knees drawn into his chest, but already his head was beginning to nod like it did frequently in Professor Binn’s class.  Then he rocked forward heavily.  Bill caught him and eased him back until he rested again against his chest.  Ron murmured some slurred protests, and batted at Bill, but gradually his breathing began to smooth out.  His eyes closed and he finally relaxed against Bill.  Everyone sat in silence for a while, then Bill slipped his arms under Ron and easily lifted him.  Ginny jumped up to move the cot aside so Bill could place him on the bed.

Now Bill sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.  Harry wanted to go to him.  He didn’t know much about comfort, especially about comforting someone who seemed as distressed as Bill.  He did remember, though, how it felt to have Bill’s arms around him, how it seemed to take away everything else in the world.  He wondered if he could do that for Bill.  

Bill seemed to feel Harry’s eyes on him, for he glanced up.  His face was ashen, but he managed a weak smile.  Harry’s heart did all sorts of flip-flops.  My lover, he thought suddenly.  IS he my lover?…can I call him that?

His thoughts were interrupted by a flurry of wings as something white flashed into the room.  

Everyone jumped, startled, as Hedwig settled on Harry’s shoulder.  

“Hedwig,” Harry frowned.  “What are you doing…ow, OUCH…”  The owl had nipped him rather sharply on the ear.

“She after owl treats?” asked George.  He went over to where Ron kept Pig’s supply and retrieved a handful.  He held them out to Hedwig, who looked at him as though positively affronted.

“Where is Pig?” asked Harry, suddenly noticing for the first time the absence of the little owl’s frenetic hooting.  He looked on top of Ron’s dresser.  Pig’s cage was empty.  Dean and the Weasleys shook their heads, no one knew where Pig was and no one seemed to care much.  Much to Hedwig’s disgust, George offered her a treat again.  She hissed at him and dug her talons sharply into Harry’s shoulder (“OW!  Hedwig!”).  Then, with a flurry of wings, she lifted from Harry’s shoulder and flew out the open window.

“What was that about?” Harry wondered.

“I couldn’t find her.”  Everyone turned to the landing. Mr. Weasley was back.

“Where have you been, Arthur?” Mrs. Weasley burst out.  “I thought you’d never get back.  And you mean you couldn’t find Poppy!”

“I walked all over Hogwarts looking for her,” Mr. Weasley responded wearily.  “But I couldn’t find her.  Finally I found a house elf who told me she took holidays at her cousin’s.  It didn’t seem to know where the cousin’s was, so I left notes for Poppy and Albus.”  He sighed and walked over to the bed, where Ron lay motionless on top of the comforter.  “How is he?”  He leaned over and swept the fringe from Ron’s eyes, then laid his palm against his son’s head.

“Dead,” said Bill.  “He’s dead out.”

There was an uncomfortable stirring in the room, Charlie sighed and Ginny made a small noise and leaned against Dean.  

“I think,” said Mr. Weasley, “that we should all go downstairs and talk.”

“I told Ron I wouldn’t leave,” said Bill.  “Besides, if we’re going to talk, then I think he should be there.  And…” he glanced up at Charlie who was yawning hugely “…Charlie needs to sleep, he’s had a long night.  

Mr. Weasley glanced around the room at his children.  His eyes flickered over Bill and Harry, Ginny and Dean, Fred and George and Charlie, who was visibly drooping.  He pushed his hands through his thinning hair and sighed.  “Charlie, you go to bed before you drop.  Molly, come on downstairs.  We’ll have a cup of tea and make breakfast together.”

Mrs. Weasley seemed about to argue:  her mouth opened, then, snaped shut.  She nodded tersely and followed her husband down the stairs.

There was a palpable sense of relief once Mrs. Weasley was gone.  Bill sighed and leaned back against the headboard of Ron’s bed.  “Budge over,” he said to Ron, who of course didn’t move.  Bill shoved at Ron until the younger redhead was pushed against the wall.  “Dead weight,” muttered Bill, “hope I don’t wake him up.”

“Don’t worry,” said George from his position against the window sill.  “You could beat him with a Bludger right now and it wouldn’t bother him a bit…that potion is strong to begin with and I’m sure you noticed Mum has a heavy pouring hand.”

Bill looked at Ron’s slack face.  He frowned. “He is going to wake up, eventually, right?  The belladonna….”

“Don’t worry about it, Billy,” said Fred.  “The belladonna is counteracted by the essence of turkey liver, which is balanced by mushroom warts.  We cut down on the acidity with a touch of vanilla.”

“Whatever, Einstein,” Bill waved him off.  “As long as he sleeps…and stays in the bed…uh,” he looked up…”think we should close the window?”

“Nah,” said Charlie.  “Too hot…got a better idea.  Incarcerous…”  He pointed his wand and a thin rope flew across the room.  One end wrapped itself around Ron’s bare ankle.  The other knotted itself to the iron bars of his bed’s footboard.  “Now, if he decides to take a walk out the window,” said Charlie grimly, “he’s going to have to take the bed with him.

“Nice one,” George nodded approvingly.

“What’s all this about Ron levitating,” asked Harry, suddenly.  “I mean before…somebody said he used to levitate.”

To his surprise, the Weasley siblings broke into snickers.  

“Nighttime emissions,” said Fred.

“Oh, shut-up,” said Bill.  His face relaxed a bit and he flashed his familiar grin.  “That was just a few times.”

“Yeah,” said George, “before he learned to wank.”

“Bet he wanks every night at Hogwarts,” said Fred. “Wouldn’t want you blokes” (he nodded at Harry and Dean) to find him hovering about the bed with a hard-on.”

“I might have heard him, er, wank a time or two,” said Harry, flushing.  (Dean snickered).  “But I’ve never seen anything…no floating,” Harry went on, “and I have the bed right next to his.”

“I’ve never heard him wank,” said Dean, mischievously.  “But that’s probably because Seamus makes too much noise.”

“He’s not going to let you blokes catch him at it,” said George.  “Well, maybe you, Harry…”

“Shut up,” said Harry.  His face felt hot.  For some reason, Bill was smirking.

“Anyway,” went on George.  “That’s not what Dad was talking about.”

Harry looked from the twins to Charlie and from Charlie to Bill.  They all seemed amused.  Ginny was snickering, leaning up against Dean.

“Come here, Harry,” said Bill.  He scooted to the middle of Ron’s small bed, shoving his brother even further into the wall, and patted the space next to him.  

Harry felt a smile tugging at lips and he ducked his head to hide it.  His heart leaped at the thought of Bill…after last night…wanting him to sit next to him.  He went shyly to the bed and sat close to Bill.  His shoulder touched Bill’s warm arm and his thigh pressed against Bill’s long one.  Harry wanted to hook one leg over Bill’s but he didn’t dare with Dean and the rest of the Weasleys in the room.

“Ron’s levitating,” Bill said, “started when he was just a little kid.”    He crossed his legs at the ankles and slid down, making himself more comfortable on Ron’s small bed.   “Did you know, Harry, he used to sing?”

“Sing?” said Harry, as if he never heard of the word.  He couldn’t imagine Ron singing.

“Sure,” said George, smirking.  “He used to tweet like a little birdie…a boy soprano…mention it to him now and he’ll give you a good thumping…”

“Yeah, don’t tell him we told you,” said Fred, snickering.  “A bit embarrassed about it, he is…but he always sung around the house when he was little.  Nobody thought anything of it, then Mum heard about a choir over in the village and got all excited…”

“Yeah,” said Charlie, “She said she always dreamed of having someone musical in the family…”

“Poor Ron,” said Bill, with a grin on his face, “all he wanted to do was play Quidditch and here was Mum dragging him over to the Muggle church in the village.

“Yeah,” Fred went on, “Percy would fly him over for practice.  They’d hide the broom outside of the village and Perce would sit in the pews until practice was over.  When Percy went to school, Fred and I’d go over with Ron.”

“I remember wanting to go,” said Ginny.  “Mum never would let me.  The only time I got to see the church was the few times the choir was singing.”

“What’s that got to do with levitating?” asked Harry.  He allowed himself to lean a tiny bit against Bill.  The older wizard gave his thigh a quick squeeze.

“Well,” said Fred.  “The way I remember it, was that Ron was pretty good and the choir master gave him some solos and it was on the high notes it happened.”

“What?” asked Harry.

“He levitated.  When Ron hit a high note,” said George, laughing, “he’d rise a few inches in the air.”  

“You’re having me on,” Harry exclaimed.  

“Nah,” said Charlie.  “The choir master kept thinking he was going up on tip-toes, you know, trying to reach the high notes.  He would say, ‘there’s no reason to do that, Weasley.”

“Ron, of course,” went on George, “had no idea he was doing it.  We had to tell him.  And since he had no idea how he was doing it, he had no idea how to stop.  It got so he would hang on to this railing at the front of the church when he sang…his feet still left the floor though,” George added with a sudden burst of laughter.  “It looked kind of like he was blowing in a strong wind.  It used to bug the choir master—Wiggins, I think his name was—something dreadful—‘Weasley, please stand still!’ ”  

“The man was daft,” Fred broke in.  “I mean, he had Ron levitating right in front of his nose and he thought the kid was just wiggly.  George and I would be sitting in the pew trying not to wet ourselves.  We’d laugh so hard Wiggins threw us out a time or two.”

“Hagrid always told me,” mused Harry, “that Muggles had a way of overlooking magic.”

The Weasley siblings were laughing.  They all looked much more relaxed now.  Ginny had stretched out on her belly on the cot, Dean, cross-legged next to her, was rubbing her back.  Charlie had slid to the floor, he leaned against the wall under the window sill.   Harry thought he looked like he was about to drop off to sleep.  

“Anyway, Ron’s singing career ended rather abruptly one Sunday, at Christmastime,” said Bill. “There was a concert at the Muggle church and the boy’s choir was singing…Ron had a solo and right there in front of the whole congregation he rose in the air,” he laughed, “there was no way to hide it…he was rising like a kite…it looked like he was headed for the rafters…”  

“So everyone in the village knew,” asked Harry.  He was enjoying the story.

“Nah, Dad threw a big Confundus charm over the whole congregation, and I think these two,” Bill nodded at George and Fred, “took the opportunity to set off a few smoke bombs.  It was havoc.”  The Weasley siblings were laughing loudly now, especially George and Fred, “Everyone ran out of the church,” said Bill, “thinking it was on fire.  Mum herded us up and snuck us out of the town.  Dad stuck around to cast a few mass memory charms…as far as anyone in the village knows, Ron never sang in the choir.”

“Imagine Ron singing,” Dean said, shaking his head in wonderment.  “I’ve never heard him sing anything but the school song.”

“I doubt you will,” said Ginny.  “And certainly not around Mum…he’s afraid she might get another notion in her head about musical Weasleys.  He’s still kind of musical, though.  He’ll have a go at the old piano up in the attic sometimes…you should get him to do it for you sometimes.  It’s horribly out of tune and it makes the ghoul howl and throw things…”

A moment of comfortable silence fell, broken suddenly by an enormous snore from Ron.  It startled Harry so badly he nearly fell off the bed.  

“Well, at least he’s still alive,” said Bill, heaving Ron on his side rather than his back.  He shot the twins a meaningful look.

“Aw, come off it, Billy,” said Fred.  “Look at him, sleeping peacefully…what he needs, right?”

“Yeah,” said George.  “You should be thanking us, not looking at us like we’re some kind of murderers…we’re just friendly chemists extraordinaire…”

That reminded Harry of something.  “Oi, George, Fred,” he said, brightly.  “That Canus Insanus stuff is brilliant…”

Fred frowned.  “How do you know about Canus Insanus?”

“I showed him,” said Bill, mildly.  “I needed something to cause a diversion when I picked Harry up…and I’d heard you lot bragging about your latest invention, so I nicked a little…that okay?”

“Really,” said Harry enthusiastically.  “It was brilliant.  The dogs were going wild and some of them were even having a go with each other.  The Dursleys’ neighbors were going mad trying to rein ’em in.”

“Uh, Bill,” said George, with a sudden glint in his eye.  “What color pellet did you take, yellow or purple?”

“Purple,” said Bill, promptly.  “I took the purple because there were about twice as many purple.”

“He took purple,” George sighed happily and turned to Fred.  “Can you believe he took purple?”

“Billy-boy,” said Fred, shaking his finger and looking gleeful.  “You should have asked us first.  We would have been glad to sell you a pellet or two…but you really should have asked first, you know…”

“All right, all right,” said Bill.  “I’ll pay you, how’s that?  But I really didn’t think my own brothers would mind…”

“It’s not that we mind,” said Fred, “it’s just that those pellets are experimental.”

“Yeah,” said George, grinning “definitely experimental.”

Bill sighed and rolled his eyes up at the ceiling.  “Okay, just tell me…what’s going to happen.”

“What’s going to happen, brother dear,” said George, “is that you’re going to have to make a midnight raid on Privet Drive.”

“What for?” Ginny asked, sitting up and looking suddenly interested.  “I wanna go.”

“Those pellets,” said George, looked positively delighted now, “were experimental in a slightly illegal and not very Muggle-friendly way.  I’m just glad you set ’em off instead of me.”

“Me too,” said Fred, solemnly, as if he would never do such a thing.

“Oh shit,” said Bill softly and the twins laughed.  George left his place by the window sill and came to high-five Fred.  They bounced on the cot, disturbing Ginny and Dean and making the cot springs squeak.  

“Don’t do that,” said Ginny, “Mum will think someone’s shagging.”

“And who would she think was shagging, Miss Ginny?” asked George, tweaking her nose.  Fred laughed too and elbowed Dean.

“Damn,” said Dean, ducking his head, shyly.  “You blokes are relentless.  If I wasn’t so black, I’d be blushing like a Weasley.”

This sent the twins into the peals of laughter.  They put their arms around Ginny and Dean and rocked the four of them back and forth.  Harry laughed and wished he could put his arms about someone as easily as the twins could.  What would it have been like to have a family…

“Don’t mind my brothers,” Ginny said to Dean.  “They’re bloody pervs…”

“Okay, okay,” Bill interrupted.  He was laughing too.  “Just tell me when to go to Privet Drive on my” —he crooked his fingers in quotations marks—“midnight raid…and what to expect.”

“When should he go, George?” Fred asked, letting go of Ginny and turning to his twin.

“Dunno,” Fred shrugged.  “How long does it take for dogs to gestate?”

“Dunno either,” said George, “but somebody better find out.”

Bill’s head fell back against the headboard with a thunk.  “They’re pregnant.  Don’t tell me you got the Dursleys’ neighbors’ dogs pregnant.”

“We didn’t do it, brother,” said George, “you did…”

“Shit!” Bill really didn’t seem to be angry.  More like amused and resigned.  “Okay, so I got a bunch of dogs pregnant…”

“Just the female ones,” Fred said, consolingly.

“And you didn’t really get them pregnant,” added George, “unless,” he waggled his eyebrows up and down, “you’re kinkier than I know…but what you really need to know, Billy, is that the dogs might not be giving birth to, uh, puppies…”

“Figured that out,” snorted Bill.  “What sort of little monsters should I expect?”

“I’m definitely going,” said Ginny, firmly.

“Well,” said Fred, “that’s a good question.  I kind of think they might be dragon-pups.  Puppyish dragons or dragonish dogs.  What do you think George?”

“I’m thinking wings and multiple heads, myself,” said George, “but definitely some dragon in the mix.”

“Dragons?” said Bill.  “Oh fuck.”

“Don’t anybody try and keep me out of this midnight raid business,” said Ginny, flinging her long red plat.  “I don’t want to hear any crap about only girl and little sister, baby of the family…”

“Relax, Ginny,” said Fred.  “You can go, if I have anything to say about it.  I don’t think of you as the baby, anymore.”

“No?” said Ginny, with her head cocked.

“Nah,” said Fred.  “I’d have to nominate Ron as the baby now.  You’ve definitely passed him on the maturity scale…”

“I’d say she’s passed you and George too,” put in Bill, his mouth twisting down..

“There’s going to be dragon puppies on Privet Drive,” said Harry with a giant grin on his face.  “I’d love to be there to see that.”

For some reason, Bill didn’t seem so amused any more.  “You’re being awfully quiet over there, Charlie,” he said.

“What, me?”  Charlie yawned.  “Uh, the gestation period for dogs is about nine weeks, for dragons it can be a year or more, depending on the breed…”

“That’s not what I meant,” said Bill.  “I’m wondering how they got enough dragon tissue…”

“Oh, right,” said Charlie, frowning suddenly.  “They did ask me to send them some egg shells…from freshly hatched dragonlings, those would definitely be nutrient rich…but, they said,” he swung around to look at Fred and George, “that they just wanted them for souvenirs…”

“And you believed them?” Bill said with exasperation.  “How long have you known Fred and George, Charlie?”

“He’s right, Chuck,” said Fred.  “You should have known better.”  

“Hey, don’t look  at me,” said Charlie, holding up his hands.  “I didn’t make the stuff and I certainly didn’t set it off at Harry’s house.”

“Dragon eggs aren’t just something you can send in the post, Charlie,” said Bill, starting to look pissed.  “And what these two gits have done is a serious breach of the ban on Experimental breeding.  “Do you know what kind of trouble Dad could get into at the Ministry…”

“That’s why you need to take care of it, Bill,” snapped Charlie, getting to his feet.  

“Me?” Bill’s voice got louder.  Harry, sitting next to him, thought he sounded a bit like Mrs. Weasley.  “What about you?  It’s your fault they had the material to make the damn stuff.”

“AND YOU SET IT OFF,” yelled Charlie.  “Without asking the twins what it might do!  Besides, you’re the oldest…you’re the one in charge when Mum and Dad are out, at least that’s what you used to tell me.”  He stalked across the room.  “Now I’m going to bed.  I’ve had a long night, like you said…AND I might I add I haven’t been out carousing like some people.”  

Harry’s face went hot while his stomach went cold.  Out carousing…what did Charlie know?  How did he know?  Did he see something?  Did he hear something?  Was he watching out the window?  His heart hammered and he almost jumped off the bed.  Hang on, he told himself.  It’s not like it’s illegal or anything…I’m sixteen…

“Hey, Bill,” said George placidly.  “How come you’re the only one who can piss Charlie off?”

“Yeah, Bill,” added Fred.  “And what did Charlie mean by carousing?”

Bill let his head fall back against the headboard again.  He ignored Fred and answered George’s question.  “I’m not the only one who pisses Charlie off, idiot.  Percy can do it too.”

“Nope,” said Fred.  “Percy makes Charlie laugh.  You piss him off.  No one else does.  Hell, George and I could mail pictures of him doing his Chinese Fireball mating dance to the Daily Prophet and he’d just laugh.

“What’s that?” asked Harry, wanting to steer the conversation away from Bill’s carousing.  

“It’s hilarious,” said Ginny, laughing.  “Charlie does a brilliant imitation of the mating dance of the Chinese Fireball…only, he’s got to be drunk to do it…”

“Drunk?” asked Harry, bemused.

“Yeah,” said George, “He only does it drunk because he has to be naked.  You wouldn’t believe it places a Fireball dragon can shoot fire from…”

“I can believe a dragon shooting fire from down there,” interrupted Fred, “what I can’t figure is how Charlie does it…”

The Weasley siblings were howling with laughter again.  “Bill,” said Ginny, “promise me you’ll get Charlie drinking…I want Dean to see him do his dance…”

“Sure, honey,” said Bill, grinning again.  “As soon as we get Ron straightened out.  We could use a laugh…and I don’t care if Charlie does burn his willie off.”


	11. Chapter 11

  
Author's notes:

This is a serial, updated about once a week...just a friendly heads-up for people who prefer to read finished pieces.

Betaed by [Brumeux77](http://astele.co.uk/TheQuidditchPitch/Chapter/Details/viewuser.php?uid=1234)

* * *

“Boys, Ginny, breakfast,” Mrs. Weasley shouted up the stairs. Her voice was hoarse and croaking and she still sounded extremely cross.

“Poor, Mum,” Bill sighed. “She’s had a time of it. First Perce turned out to the world’s biggest git, and then a bloody war broke out. Now Ron’s giving her a lovely summer.” He looked around the room. “Why don’t you lot go down and have some breakfast, I’ll stay with Ron.”

Harry didn’t want to leave Bill.  “I said I’d stay with Ron, too,” he said.  
   
“Fine,” said Bill, mildly.  “Go down and get a couple of plates.”    
   
Harry smiled shyly at Bill, slipped off the bed and followed Ginny, Dean, Fred and George down stairs.  Everyone seemed to have sobered up a bit at the thought of sharing a breakfast table with Mrs. Weasley.  
   
Harry was the last one into the kitchen.  To his surprise, he found Mrs. Weasley waiting for him with two plates loaded with eggs, kippers, toast and fruit.    
   
“Figured you and Bill would rather eat up in the bedroom,” she said, shoving the plates at him.  “I’ll send some tea after you.”  
   
Harry blushed at Mrs. Weasley’s choice of words—makes it sound like we’re bloody newlyweds—but he nodded and took the plates.  A teapot and two cups and saucers floated off the table and bobbed in the air after him as he climbed back up the long staircase.  
   
Bill looked up as he came into the room.  “That was fast,” he said.    
   
“Your mum was all ready with the plates,” said Harry.  He handed one to Bill and sat on the edge of the bed with the other.  The teapot and saucers floated over to the bedside table and settled themselves there.  He and Bill ate in silence for a moment.  Harry noticed Bill kept glancing over at Ron who hadn’t moved at all since Bill had flipped him on his side.  “You still worried about the belladonna?” Harry asked, with his mouth full.  
   
“Not really,” said Bill, frowning.  “The twins would do a lot of things to Ron, but they wouldn’t intentionally endanger him.  Not on my watch,” he gave Harry a quick grin.  “And certainly not on Mum’s.  Besides, they really are talented at certain types of magic.” His face darkened again and he put his plate in his lap to trace one of the nasty black-tipped wounds on his brother’s arm.  “It’s just the idea that he would go this far…he’d actually cut himself…with a fucking knife.”  He shook his head.  “And that fall…now that I think back…it happened so fast…I didn’t see the whole thing, but I wonder how accidental it was…”  
   
“I saw it,” said Harry.  “It didn’t look like an accident to me.  Dean grabbed for his broom, Ron didn’t even try.”    
   
“Seeker’s eyes,” murmured Bill, still watching Ron.  He laid a finger gently against a cut.  “It’s hot,” he commented.  “Infected, maybe.  He’s going to have to let Mum have a look; that’ll be fun.  I might have to hold him still again.  I’d tell her to come up and work on them while he’s asleep, but that just seems wrong.”  
   
Harry nodded.  He was glad Bill felt that way.  “Maybe the twins could heal him.”  
   
“They probably could,” said Bill.  “Ron could probably heal them himself, for that matter, with all this new crap he knows.  But apparently the pain is serving some purpose.  And at this point, I’d rather let him have the cuts.  I wouldn’t want him off looking for other ways to hurt himself…”  He grimaced.  “Diving off his broom, for fuck’s sake.”  
   
“Do you think a stinging hex would work?” asked Harry.  “Stinging hurts, but it doesn’t do permanent damage.”    
   
Bill turned to look at Harry.  “There’s an idea.”  His eyebrows went up.  “A fucking brilliant one.  Until we get him straightened out, we’ll just take turns stinging the little bastard.”  
   
Harry put his hand on Bill’s arm.  “Don’t be too mad at him, Bill.  He was trying to help me…if I hadn’t been so stupid…”  
   
Bill cut him off.  “Don’t even say it, Harry. I’m not interested whether this is your fault or anyone else’s fault.  You didn’t ask for a Death Eater attack and Ron didn’t go throw a Confundus on himself.  You lot were attacked by seasoned pros…I’m amazed you came out of it as well as you did.”  He softened his tone.  “I know your Sirius didn’t come out of it, Harry and I’m sorry…”  
   
Harry nodded.  His throat tightened a little, but he found that it didn’t hurt as much to hear Sirius’ name.  Guess I needed my big girly blub, then, he thought.  He felt a moment of shame for being so thick when Cho had cried.  “Okay,” he said.  “But Bill, if it’s nobody’s fault…then you can’t be pissed at Ron, can you?”  
   
 Bill laughed.  “Of course I can,” he said.  “He’s my brother…Little wanker’s been driving me mad for sixteen and a half years now…this is just one more thing.  If you had brothers, you’d know how fast they can piss you off.”  
   
“Well,” said Harry thoughtfully, “Ron’s the closest I have to a brother and he drives me mad occasionally.”    
   
“There you go,” said Bill. “He’s mine and I love him, but he can be a right berk sometimes.”  He rolled Ron to his back; the younger redhead’s nose had been nearly touching the wall.  Then he turned back to Harry.  “Fancy some tea?”  
   
Harry nodded.    
   
“I’ll be mother, then,” Bill said, giving Harry a lopsided grin that reminded him of Ron.  Bill pointed his wand at the bedside table.  The teapot floated up and poured tea into the two cups on their saucers.  One of the saucers stopped and hovered next to Harry.  The other stopped over Bill’s lap.  
   
“Hope yours doesn’t spill,” Harry said, taking his cup from the saucer and eying Bill’s cup.  
   
Bill raised an eyebrow at Harry.  “Wouldn’t be much good to you if I spilled hot tea down my pants, now would I?”  
   
Harry felt his face growing hot.  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.  Does he think that’s the only reason I like him?  
   
Bill grinned.  “Harry, I’m kidding.”  He took a sip of tea.  “Honestly.”  
   
Harry flushed even harder.  “You’re flirting with me,” he burst out and wished immediately he could have the words back.  
   
Bill threw back his head and laughed.  “Of course I am, you nutter.  Do you want to play Tic-tacs instead?”  
   
Harry was sure he was flushing as badly as a Weasley now.  “NO!” he said, hotly, his heart suddenly thumping in his chest.      
   
“What is it, Harry?” asked Bill, looking at him, bemused.  “You’re getting worked up about something.”  
   
“Shit,” said Harry, averting his eyes.  He could think of nothing else to look at so he gazed into his teacup.  “I’m no good at this,” he finally said.  “I really bollocked things up with a girl I fancied last term…after last night (he blushed furiously) I don’t want to bollocks things up with you.”  
   
“Okay,” said Bill, the laughter fading from his eyes.  “Why don’t we just talk, man to man?”  
   
“Right,” said Harry, studying his tea in a way that would have made Trelawney proud.  “I fancy you…I pretty much fancy you rotten.”  
   
“Harry.”    
   
Harry didn’t look up.  He couldn’t.  He hadn’t meant to be so blunt.  What if Bill was about to let him down gently?  His heart dropped into his stomach.  He gazed at his tea until his vision blurred.  He could feel Bill beside him, one warm arm against his own and he remembered how that arm was smooth and corded with muscle and how it had felt wrapped around his back.  He startled when his teacup jumped suddenly out of his hand and whisked over to land on the bedside table.  He found himself staring at an empty saucer.  
   
“Hey now, Harry,” Bill said.  He sent his own teacup and saucer over to the bedside table.  
   
Harry still couldn’t look up so Bill took his chin in his hand and turned the boy to face him.  “I know that, love,” the redhead said.  “I fancy you, too.  You’re brave, you’re strong, and you’re dead gorgeous…”  
   
Harry’s mouth dropped open.  “You’re blind…or daft,” he whispered.  
   
“No, idiot, you are,” said Bill gently.  “I do fancy you and I’d love to kiss you, but we’ve got to talk first…”  
   
Harry wasn’t listening any more.  His mind had snagged on whatever Bill had said about kissing and he could give a hang about the rest.  Suddenly bold, he got to his knees and climbed into Bill’s lap.  He straddled the redhead, facing him and put his arms around his neck.  Mrs. Weasley’s breakfast plates clattered to the floor.  
   
Bill held Harry about the ribs, attempting to keep him at bay.  “We have to talk first, Harry…” he said.  
   
“Shut up, Head Boy,” growled Harry.  “Talk later.”    
   
He kissed Bill and the last of his self-consciousness drained away.  He pressed his chest against Bill’s and put his tongue into Bill’s opening mouth.  He wasn’t worried about whether he was a good kisser or not or not because his brain had fallen out of the back of his head again. His mouth, his lips were doing his thinking for him now, moving over Bill’s mouth in a way they remembered from the night before.   He angled his head to one side, liking the way that lined his mouth up with Bill’s and how it allowed him to press his tongue flat against Bill’s.  He kissed Bill and Bill kissed him back.  It was just like it had been the night before, hot and wet and slippery, so sweet it nearly broke his heart.  
   
When he finally pulled away from Bill’s mouth, he was gasping.  He grabbed a handful of Bill’s long hair.  With the other hand, he tore off his glasses and threw them on top of Ron’s chest, scarcely registering his friend’s presence.   There was something about Bill that made Harry feel like so desperate, like he might explode.  He put his head on Bill’s shoulder, rubbed his face on Bill’s neck like a cat, inhaling the rich skin scent there before pressing his lips to Bill’s throat, kissing and licking hungrily.  
   
Bill groaned.  He wrapped one strong arm around Harry’s back and seized the boy’s chin with the other hand.  He bent Harry back over his arm, tipping his dark head to kiss him hard on the mouth.  Harry kissed back and felt himself squirming in Bill’s lap.  He felt his nipples peak and his cock grow hot and hard.  He ground his pelvis into Bill’s, moaning, rubbing his chest against Bill’s.  
   
Harry was aware of the bedroom door closing as Bill rose up on his knees, lifting Harry with him.  Harry heard the lock click as the redhead laid him on his back and stretched his long body over Harry’s.  Their heads were now at the foot of the bed and their feet up near Ron’s head.  Harry hoped vaguely that neither one of them kicked Ron in the head though he didn’t suppose it would bother Ron at the moment.  He moaned again as he felt Bill’s weight pressing him down and Bill’s soft lips go to his neck, his ears, his eyelids, then his mouth.  
   
He lost himself in kissing again.  Bill’s tongue was in his mouth, pulling sounds out of him he was sure he’d never made before.  And he felt himself bucking wildly, arms tight around Bill’s back, pulling him as close as he could.  He could hear the bedsprings squeaking until Bill broke the kiss and said something to silence them.    
   
Harry clawed at Bill’s t-shirt, bunching the material up until he felt the smooth hot skin underneath.  He ran his hands up Bill’s back as far as he could reach; he turned his head as Bill nipped softly at his neck and put his own hands up Harry’s shirt.  Harry nearly screamed when Bill’s thumbs brushed over his nipples.  He bit his own arm to muffle his moans.  Bill tweaked Harry’s nipples, rolled them between his fingers as Harry moaned into his arm and writhed helplessly beneath him.  
   
Then suddenly Bill stopped.  He stopped kissing Harry and he left off with the wonderful things he was doing to Harry’s nipples.  Harry wanted to scream again, this time in frustration.  He bumped his groin insistently against Bill’s, but the older wizard shook his head.  He kissed Harry gently on the forehead, and then put his face in Harry’s neck.  
   
Harry struggled for a moment, unwilling to stop, but Bill took both of his hands in his own and held them on either side of Harry’s head.  He wasn’t pinning Harry, exactly, but with his superior strength, he was stopping him.  He gave Harry a moment to calm down, to let both of their breathing return to normal.  
   
Disappointed, Harry turned to his head to the side.  He caught sight of Ron’s bare ankle and the rope that tied it to the bed—which only made him even hotter than ever.  He rocked his pelvis hopefully against Bill’s a few more times.  “Why’d you stop, Bill,” he finally asked sadly.  
   
Bill lifted his head.  He stroked Harry’s black hair and pulled gently on the white lock.  “Sorry, love,” he said, a smile quirking one corner of his mouth.  “We need to talk…we really do, love,” he insisted, laughing at the sour look on Harry’s face.  “We might have even finished by now if you hadn’t jumped me.”  
   
Harry felt something warm in his chest and belly.  He wants me, he thought.  He actually wants me.  He’d never felt particularly desirable before.  “So,” he said, feeling bold again, “you’re saying you can resist me…no matter what I do?”  
   
“No,” said Bill, with an evil grin.  “But I might know a few spells that could help me keep you in check.”  
   
“Oh fuck,” groaned Harry as all the blood rushed to his groin.  He buried his head into Bill’s chest, wildly turned on.  He was sure he’d never heard anyone say anything hotter, ever.  
   
“Are you going to let me talk now, Potter?” asked Bill.  “Or am I going to have to hold you here all day?”  
   
“Hold me here all day?” Harry suggested hopefully.  
   
“Wrong answer.”  Bill sat up and pulled Harry up after him.  “I gotta go take a piss, though at this point, I’m more likely to hit the bloody ceiling than the toilet bowl…but if I do,” he tousled Harry’s hair as he stood, “that’s what cleaning spells are for, right?  I’ll be back and we’ll talk, okay?  Talk.”  He made chattering motions with one hand.  
   
“Talk,” mumbled Harry, staring at Bill’s backside as the older wizard left the room.  He fell back on the bed next to Ron.  “Man,” he said to his unconscious friend, “your big brother is friggin’ hot.”  Ron didn’t move.  
   
When Bill got back, Harry decided to take a turn in the bathroom.    
   
“My, my,” the toilet said to him as he stood over the bowl.   “You boys seem to be in quite the state today.  Mind you, I’ve seen a lot of erections living in a house with six boys, but there must be something special in the air today.”  
   
“If you tell anyone about my erections,” said Harry, “I’ll take a sledgehammer to you.”  He struggled to get himself pointed in the right direction, snarling, “oh shut up” when the toilet offered helpful suggestions.  He brushed his teeth and patted fruitlessly at his hair before washing his hands and remembering, at the last moment, to tell the toilet to flush.  
   
When he returned to bedroom, he found Bill lying on his stomach next to Ron, holding one of his brother’s arms and making close inspection of his wounds.  “Definitely a little puss around this one,” he said indicating an angry-looking weal in the crook of Ron’s elbow.  “Oy, Harry,” he added, looking up.  “We’ve had a visitor.”  Bill pointed with his chin to the top of the bureau where Hedwig sat with a parchment tied around her leg.  She clicked her beak at Harry.  Harry started over to her, but suddenly there was a wild twittering and the flurry of tiny wings.  He looked up just in time to see Pig zip through the window.  The little owl hit him square in the chest and dropped to the floor in a feathery heap.    
   
“Pig,” exclaimed Harry bending to pick up the pigmy owl.  Before he could touch it, however, Pig flapped into the air and fluttered about the room in a manner more reminiscent of a bat than an owl before landing on top of the bureau next to Hedwig.  He too held out his leg, even though there was nothing tied to it.  
   
“Fucking barmy little owl,” commented Bill.  
   
“He must have been with Hedwig when she got this message,” said Harry untying the parchment.  “I bet he wanted to help deliver it,” he added, realizing how much that would have irritated Hedwig.  The snowy owl was in fact now hissing at the pigmy.  Harry unrolled the parchment and examined the note.  “It’s from Hermione,” he told Bill.  “She’s at the twins’ place in Diagon Alley and wants to come over.  She says she can’t get through on the Floo.”    
   
“No, I guess not,” said Bill, as Harry tossed treats to both Hedwig and Pig.  “The wards are set to let only Weasleys and Order Members through.”  
   
“Maybe that was what Hedwig was after me about earlier,” mused Harry.  “Wonder how she knew Hermione was at Fred and George’s…”  
   
“She knew because she’s a ruddy smart owl bred by a ruddy good wizard,” said Bill.  “You got lucky with that one.”  
   
“Well, Hagrid chose her,” said Harry.  
   
“There you go,” said Bill.  “Who knows magical creatures better than Hagrid?”  
   
“Should I tell the twins to go get Hermione?” asked Harry, looking at Bill who had now rolled to his back next to Ron.  The older wizard had tucked his arms under his head and stretched himself full length.  Harry sighed.  He only wanted to stretch himself out on top of Bill and forget about Hermione.  Once she arrived, she’d subject him to hours of interrogation.  Normally he didn’t mind, and under ordinary circumstances, he’d certainly want to discuss Ron’s condition with her.  At the moment, however, it was hard to think of anything other than Bill.  
   
“Write her back and tell her to go wait at Fortescue’s,” Bill said.  He seemed to know what Harry was thinking.  “Tell her we’ll send the twins to meet her there.  Tell her to have anything she wants and buy herself a book as well.  The twins will pick up all expenses to make up for the delay.  I hate to make her wait, Harry, but we need to talk first.”  
   
Harry had an unpleasant sensation in his stomach, like it had suddenly tumbled the length of the Weasley staircase.  “This is going to be bad, isn’t it?” he asked Bill, wishing he didn’t sound so desperate.  He wrote out a message to Hermione.  
   
“I don’t think so,” said Bill, sighing.  “I’m just going to be as honest with you as I can.  The last thing I want to do is hurt you, Harry, but I can’t just think about myself.  There are other people,” he sighed, “who mean so much to me.”  
   
“Gryffindor,” muttered Harry, for once in his life wishing for one of his mates to be a more self-serving Slytherin.  It’s Fleur, he thought miserably to himself.  Maybe he wants me, but he wants her more.  He’s going to dump me.  He tied his message to Hedwig’s leg and she swooped out the window.  “Go with her,” he said to Pig, shooing the little owl away.  He didn’t want Pig buzzing about like a wind-up toy while he and Bill were talking.  Pig hopped from the bureau and sped off like a mad bumblebee.  “Let’s get it over with,” he said morosely to Bill.       
   
 “Don’t look so glum, kiddo,” said Bill.  He sat up and patted the space on the bed next to him.  “Come on over.”  
   
Harry went slowly to the bed and dumped himself on the mattress next to Bill.  He felt a bit guilty when he saw Ron’s head bounce on his pillow.  Ron, however, didn’t stir.  George and Fred, thought Harry, are scary.  Smart, but scary..  
   
Bill saw him looking at Ron.  “I keep checking to make sure he’s breathing,” the older wizard admitted.  He put his hand on Ron’s chest, watching the light rises and falls.  “Mum said she stayed awake all night watching me breathe the first night she and Dad had me.  Kind of know what she means now.”  He turned back to Harry and picked up the boy’s right hand.  He traced the white lines on the back of Harry’s hand, I must not tell lies.  He shook his head.  “Squatty old twat.”  
   
Harry nodded.  He felt a little seasick and wondered if he would end up regretting ever starting with Bill.  
   
“Harry,” Bill finally sighed.  “I think the world of you.  All those things I said about you earlier…you’re brave, wonderful, beautiful…I meant ‘em all.  You’re also a lot hotter than I ever dreamed you’d be.  You’re all grown-up now, almost not a kid anymore.”  
   
“If you’re going to tell me I’m too young,” said Harry angrily, trying to pull his hand away, “don’t bother…”  
   
Bill kept hold of his hand.  “I admit the age difference is a little alarming,” he said.  “After all, I’m a good eleven years older than you.  But,” he sighed, “you’ve already survived so much…I’d be daft to tell you you’re too young for sex.  Shit, Harry, I’m a cursebreaker…I’ve had mummies go at me, I’ve tripped booby-traps and whatnot…but I think the things you’ve had to face down would make me piss my pants.”  He kissed Harry’s hand.  
   
“Lovely,” said Harry, feeling his face flush and his cock perk up in spite of himself.  “Do me a favor, Bill.  If you’re going to dump me, don’t seduce me at the same time.”  
   
“Ouch,” said Bill, dropping Harry’s hand.  “Okay, Harry,” he squared his shoulders.  “Here’s the thing.  I’d love to be with you, but I need to know first how my brother feels about you.”  
   
Harry’s mouth fell open.  “Your brother?” he said incredulously.  “What brother?”      
   
Now it was Bill’s turn to look incredulous.  “What brother?”  He jerked his head toward Ron’s sleeping figure.  “Remember Ronnie here, your best mate?”  
   
“I remember him,” said Harry, staring at Bill.  “But, like you said, he’s my best mate…not my boyfriend.”  
   
“I know he’s not your boyfriend now,” said Bill.  “But I’m pretty sure he’s going to be one day.”  
   
“No, Bill,” Harry said, dumbfounded, shaking his head.  “You got it wrong.  We care about each other, sure…a lot.  I don’t even want to imagine my life without Ron…but we don’t feel that way about each other…”  
   
“Listen to what you just said,” Bill said, taking both of Harry’s hands in his.  “You can’t imagine your life without Ron…no, wait,” he said as Harry opened his mouth to interrupt.  “In this family, we all know that you’re Ron’s…you belong to him and he belongs to you…”  
   
“We belong to each other because we’re best mates,” said Harry, exasperated.  He found he was squeezing Bill’s hands rather hard.  “You might as well say Hermione is Ron’s…they’re best mates too…and he’s fancied her forever.”  
   
“Well,” said Bill, squeezing Harry’s hands in return.  “That’s one of the complications of this whole thing.  I know Ron fancies Hermione…I wouldn’t be surprised if they started seeing each other.  But I don’t think Ron’s meant to be with Hermione forever.  I know my brother and I know he doesn’t love Hermione the way he loves you.”  
   
“You’re mental,” Harry insisted.  “Ask Ron.  He’ll tell you he likes me as a friend.”  
   
“No, he won’t, Harry,” said Bill, shaking his head.  “He’ll get silent, and then he’ll get mad and ask me why I couldn’t just stick to Fleur and keep my grubby paws off of you.”  
   
“That’s rot,” Harry said hotly.  “Will you just ask him when he wakes up, so we can have done with it?”  
   
Bill shook his head again.  “I’m not going to ask him now, Harry, he’s in a right state.  I think I owe to him to let him sort this Gerard stuff out, before I ask him.  And until then, I also owe to him to keep my hands off of you…”  
   
“It’s a little late for that!” burst out Harry, furiously.  “You already did put your hands on me…you can’t make last night go away…”  
   
“I wouldn’t want to make it go away,” Bill tried to say, but Harry talked over him.  
   
“And you were flirting with me here in the bedroom…after everyone left.”  Harry was incensed, and not because he thought Bill had taken advantage of him…but because he was afraid Bill would refuse to be with him again, and that he didn’t think he could stand it.  
   
“I know, I know, Harry,” said Bill.  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…I really do like you, I’m not just giving you a line…if it wasn’t for Ron, I’d be all over you in a heartbeat.”  
   
For a horrible moment, Harry hated Ron.  What if Ron had died in that fall, a nasty voice in his head said.  I’d be here to comfort Bill.  In the very next moment, he felt almost physically sick.  How could I think such a thing? Nothing’s worth that.    
   
Bill was still talking.  “Something is telling me, kiddo,” he said, “that you and Ron were meant to be together.”  
   
“And something is telling me we weren’t,” said Harry stubbornly.  He heaved a sigh.  Some of his anger had abated at Bill’s words.  He says he really does like me, he thought.  And part of him believed it.  Another part of him remained suspicious—what if he was with me just because I was convenient, just happened to be there when his dick got hard.  And still another part of him was singing, tap-dancing like a fool.  He likes me, he really does!  It was enough to make his head swim.  He took a deep breath, willing himself to be calm.  He was certain that when Bill talked to Ron, Ron would tell him he was daft, that he and Harry were just mates, that’s all.  But Bill wanted to wait to talk to Ron and Harry wanted Bill now—now, and so badly he couldn’t stand the thought of waiting for Ron to get better.    
   
“Bill,” he said.  “Can I tell you something?”    
   
“Sure, Harry,” said Bill.  The redhead looked sad.  He was leaning back against the headboard again and Harry noticed his hand had drifted to Ron’s chest.    
   
Harry leaned back next to Bill.  His stomach lurched and he knew what he was about to do was underhanded.  Maybe the sorting hat was right when it said I would have done well in Slytherin, he thought.   



	12. Chapter 12

  
Author's notes:

This is a serial, updated about once a week...just a friendly heads-up for people who prefer to read finished pieces.

Betaed by [Brumeux77](http://astele.co.uk/TheQuidditchPitch/Chapter/Details/viewuser.php?uid=1234)

* * *

“You know about the prophecy.”

Bill frowned. “Sure. I mean, I know there was a prophecy, but it was destroyed before anyone could hear it.”

“I heard it,” Harry said.

“All that’s true,” Harry said. “But there was another recording of the prophecy. Dumbledore had it and he let me hear it. I just haven’t told any one yet.”

“Shit, Harry,” Bill looked concerned. “You haven’t told anyone? I take it you’re about to tell me.”

“I haven’t told anyone because I didn’t feel like it,” said Harry, feeling prickly all of a sudden, defensive and shifty. “It’s not a pleasant prophecy. Voldemort’s not going to have a sudden change of heart…skip off into the sunset, you know, and leave me alone. It’s a hard thing to tell, actually…but I was going to ask Dumbledore if I could tell Ron and Hermione.”

“Are you sure you should tell me now?”

“Can I trust you?”

Bill frowned. “Trust me to what?”

Harry wasn’t sure. “Erm, not to tell anyone else about the prophecy?”

“Of course, you can trust me that way,” Bill said impatiently. “You can tell me anything you want…I already told you that. And, hell, of course I want to hear it, I’m dying of curiosity, naturally…it’s just that I wanted to make sure that it was okay for you to tell me…crap,” He rolled his eyes at himself. “Listen to me. I’m fucking this up…You know best, Harry…tell me if you want to…and I won’t tell a soul.”

Now Harry felt positively slimy. That’s because you’re using the prophecy to get to him, to get laid, you berk, said the voice in his head. Harry wondered if he’d ever done anything this manipulative to a friend before. But he just couldn’t help himself…he didn’t want to help himself…

He leaned back against the headboard and stared straight ahead. He couldn’t look at Bill or Ron as he spoke so he fixed his eyes on a Chudley Cannons beater who had stopped flying for a moment to pick his nose. “There were two parts to the prophecy,” he started. “The first part Voldemort heard…that someone born at the end of July 1980 would be able to defeat him. Dumbledore told me that when the prophecy was made it could have been me or Neville Longbottom, but that after Voldemort attacked me, it could only be me.”

“You mean that if You-Know-Who had attacked Neville, he would have been the one who could kill…”

“Who knows?” Harry shrugged. “Neville might not have survived. I only survived because my mum sacrificed herself for me.” He felt Bill take his hand. Harry supposed he should have felt even slimier, but he didn’t. He actually felt better. It was nice, finally, to be able to tell someone, someone he did indeed trust, and not be so alone with the horrible truth.

“The worst thing about the prophecy is that it says that only one of us will survive, me or him.” He felt Bill squeeze his hand. “So if I’m the only one who can defeat him, I’ve got to face him. And if only one of us can survive, before it’s over, I’m either going to be dead or I’m going to be a murderer. I feel fucked,” he added softly, “either way.”

Bill sighed. He was silent for a long moment. Then he turned and put both arms about Harry and pulled him close. Harry rested his head against Bill’s chest, wrapped his arms around the redhead’s waist and closed his eyes. Suddenly it didn’t matter whether he had been manipulative or not. All that mattered was that someone cared enough to comfort him. Harry turned his forehead into Bill’s chest and wondered how he could have managed so long without someone to comfort him. He let Bill hold him, feeling some measure of healing start.

“I’m such an arse,” said Bill, resting his chin on the top of Harry’s head. “How could I have had ever said to you that everything was going to be all right…”

“You think he’s going to win,” said Harry, softly. Though, at the moment, he didn’t really care, he just liked the rumbly vibrations that came from Bill’s chest when he spoke.

“No,” said Bill, kissing Harry’s head lightly. “You’re going to win. I’m absolutely sure of it. I’ve seen enough of you and heard enough from Ron, Dumbledore and the other Order members to believe that you can do whatever you have to do. But,” he sighed again, “can anything really ever be all right again, love?” He let his voice trail off.

It was what Harry needed to hear. To have someone else understand how awful it was, how much worse it would get before it was all over…and that things would never be the same again.

Ron suddenly sighed in his sleep. His head moved on the pillow and his foot tugged slightly at the rope binding it to the bed. Both Harry and Bill watched him for a moment but he made no further movements.

“Bill,” Harry finally said, “say you’re right and Ron and I were meant to be together. You mean some time in the future, don’t you?”

Bill nodded. Harry couldn’t see it, but he could feel it.

“That’s just it,” he said. “I don’t know how much of a future I have. No wait,” he added quickly, because he heard Bill stir as if he were about to speak. “Even you admit that if Ron and I were meant to be together, it’s in the future. But, even if you believe I’ll win, you gotta admit, there are no guarantees.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t know if I have a future, but I do have a right now. And right now, I want you. More than anything. And fuck Voldemort anyway…” Harry fell abruptly silent because Bill’s heart had thumped hard when he’d mentioned Voldemort. Harry had heard it and he’d felt it against his cheek. He turned his ear to Bill’s chest, listening to the heart’s strong beat…listening to the air going in and out of Bill’s lungs. Harry could almost hear the blood moving in Bill’s veins…all of these things seemed suddenly and vastly more important than any sodding dark wizard.

After a while, Bill put a finger under Harry’s chin and tipped his face up. His kiss, this time, had no urgency, no playfulness. It was soft and gentle and continued on for quite a long time. When he broke the kiss, he pulled Harry into his lap and took the boy’s glasses off for him. He took the time to place the glasses carefully on the bedside table before turning back to Harry. Then he took Harry’s face in his hands and kissed him again.

Harry closed his eyes, wondering how so soft a kiss could make him so hard. He was still wearing his pajama pants, with no underwear, and his cock had uncurled and stiffened against his belly. His nipples were hard again too; really he’d had no idea that nipples were such an important part of sex. He had tended to think of male nipples (when he did think of them) as sort of a biological accident, body parts properly belonging to women. Men had them, sure, but evolution would eventually take care of that. He was now quickly revising his opinion and suddenly more interested in nipples than he’d ever thought he could be. Maybe he’d be like Hermione and take a History of the Nipple book out of the library; in the meantime, Bill’s seemed an excellent place to begin his study. He put his hands under Bill’s t-shirt, enjoying the feel of the soft skin over hard muscles before moving his hands to place them flat, palm down, over Bill’s nipples.

Bill let go of Harry’s face and took hold of the boy’s forearms. His grip was strong and he was suddenly kissing Harry harder. Harry rubbed his palms in circles, then tweaked Bill’s nipples, the way Bill had tweaked his.

“Holy shit,” said Bill, breaking the kiss. His hips jerked.

“I know,” said Harry sympathetically, tweaking the nipples again.

Bill’s hips jerked again. He snatched Harry to him for another kiss, this one even harder.

Harry responded eagerly, opening his mouth and moaning as his tongue touched Bill’s. They kissed hungrily for a moment, Bill’s pelvis pushing up into Harry’s and Harry’s down into Bill’s.

This time, it was Harry, panting, who broke the kiss. He tugged at the hem of Bill’s t-shirt, lifting it above his pectorals, wanting to see. He liked the way the t-shirt stretched across Bill’s wide chest, making a tight white band. Harry made flat palms of his hands again and rubbed them all over Bill’s chest, feeling the older wizard grip his forearms even harder. Bill didn’t have much in the way of chest hair, Harry noted, just a sparse patch between his pectorals, and the expected wiry hairs around his nipples. Between the pond, dorm, bath and locker rooms, Harry had seen enough naked and half-naked Weasleys to know that this was a family trait. The only Weasley who had much body hair at all was Charlie, who had russet fur on his chest, down his arms and even on his back.

Harry dipped his head now and licked at Bill’s right nipple. Bill’s hips jerked again and one of his hands went to the back of Harry’s head, pressing him more firmly to his chest. Held in place, Harry sucked at Bill’s nipple, tugging it with his lips, nipping it with his teeth. Bill was moaning now, his hips rocking. Harry felt a hot thrill running through his own body at the thought that he could turn the older wizard on so.

This time when Bill lifted him, he settled them on the floor, with Harry on his lap. Over Harry’s shoulder, he said the words to lock the door and the words to silence any sounds that came from the room. Harry listened to him order the floor not to creak. And when Bill gave him an order (“take off your shirt, kid”), Harry shivered and obeyed.

Bill stretched them both out on the floor so that Harry was on top this time. He rubbed his hands up and down the younger wizard’s back and squeezed his arse while Harry clung tight, kissing Bill and squirming frantically on top of him. Finally Bill rolled Harry to the floor so the two of them were lying side by side. Then he laid one hand flat against Harry’s stomach, pausing to rub in circles. Harry realized Bill was giving him a chance to call a halt…to say stop and that’s enough…which was exactly what Harry didn’t want. He grabbed the older wizard’s hand and thrust it down his pajama pants.

Bill could take a hint. His big hand wrapped firmly around Harry’s hard cock and squeezed. He lowered his head and began to worry Harry’s left nipple with his tongue. Harry moaned and he grasped the older wizard’s head to keep him there. Bill teased Harry’s nipple with his tongue and stroked his cock, slick with pre-come, with slow firm strokes. Harry, more aroused than he knew it was possible to be, buried his face in Bill’s neck, groaning and whimpering. He could feel his pajama pants bunched about his knees and he had a moment to think that what Bill was doing to him was so exquisite, so intense it was hardly to be borne. He had a moment to think that by holding Bill’s head to his chest as the older wizard tormented his nipple, he was assisting in his own sweet torture. He had a moment to understand that in a moment he would be begging Bill to stop…and another moment to realize it was all going to end way too soon. Just a moment or two, and then he came hard and long, hips jerking, in Bill’s hand.

“Oh,” he sighed, burying his face in Bill’s neck. His anus had puckered and was tingling. Why, he wondered vaguely, was his arsehole was so bleeding interested in what was happening to his cock? Then he forgot all about his arse because Bill’s hand, now slippery with ejaculate was sliding gently on his cock and it was way too much to bear. “No,” Harry mumbled, grasping the older wizard’s wrist, “too intense.”

“I know,” said Bill, laughing softly. “But give it just a moment and it’ll feel good again.” Still, he left off stroking Harry’s cock, holding it as it grew limp and sticky in his hand.

“Oh,” said Harry again, sighing. “That was brilliant.” His face was still in Bill’s neck and he rubbed his cheek against the warm skin, inhaling the rich skin scent. His cock throbbed pleasantly and he suddenly noticed Bill’s pajama pants were down as well and the older wizard’s cock was swollen and bobbing against his belly. Rather large, isn’t he? Harry thought. Another family trait. The size of Ron’s prick was something of a joke in the Gryffindor bath, as the redhead seemed to be half-hard most of the time. Harry remembered one tipsy night, Fred and George had instigated what Harry had considered a strange and embarrassing contest. But Fred and George had a way of getting Harry to participate in their antics. The contest had had surprising results: Neville, giggling like a girl, had been found to have the longest prick. Ron, with the second longest, had repeatedly explained he hadn’t finished growing yet. Dean, third longest, had insisted his was the prettiest. Fred and George, identical to the last freckle, had tied for fourth place. Harry had been next, but Fred had congratulated him on having a noticeably large phallic head. “That’s gonna rub everyone the right way, mate,” he’d said. Seamus and Lee had put their bits away quickly, arguing that girth counted just as much as length. Then Fred and George, with a few stretching and engorgement charms, had shown them all how little size mattered in the wizarding world. The twins had grown organs long enough to hold a sword fight and Harry had nearly pissed himself laughing.

“What ever could you be thinking?” Bill murmured in his ear, startling Harry out of a half daze. “You have the funniest look on your face.”

Harry thought about explaining, but Bill’s lips were still moving on his ear, which made Harry groan. His cock jumped suddenly in Bill’s hand. Harry looked down to see himself growing hard again, heard Bill’s low laughter. “Guh,” said Harry.

“I’ll take that as a compliment, love,” Bill said, smirking. He gathered Harry up in a full body hug, squeezed him tightly, then rolled him over on his back and positioned himself on top of him. Of all the things they had done so far, Harry found nothing so wonderful as having Bill lie atop him. Something about Bill’s weight and size, the delicious slide of his skin…it was comforting, Harry realized, as well as a major turn-on.

Bill was now moving against Harry, the older wizard’s hard cock rubbing against Harry’s stiffening one. Bill dipped his head to kiss Harry’s mouth, bite gently at his neck and scrape his tongue cruelly over Harry’s already sensitized nipples. In a matter of minutes, Bill had Harry hard, squirming and moaning helplessly again.

Supporting himself with one arm, Bill reached down with the other and grasped both his cock and Harry’s in his large hand. Now Harry’s moans turned to bleats and whimpers as Bill stroked both of their cocks together. Harry turned his head to lock lips with Bill, thrusting with his tongue, and bucking into Bill’s hand. He could feel his orgasm gathering, it seemed to be pulling itself from every part of his body. Bill’s body was tensing too. Suddenly the older wizard went rigid. Harry put his hand over Bill’s and they squeezed together. Bill came first, splashing Harry’s belly with a spurts of hot white cream, and crying out into Harry’s mouth. Harry felt himself seize, then he came hard, shuddering from the effort.

For a moment, both wizards lay panting, hot streams of their breath hitting each other in the face, their bellies slippery with sweat and ejaculate. Then Bill rolled to his back, pulling Harry to rest against his shoulder. Harry clung tight, nearly in tears, feeling Bill stroke his hair, his back and murmuring words Harry didn’t catch into his ear.

Finally Harry could speak. He wanted to say something reckless, like I love you. Instead, he just said “Bill?” It came out as a question.

“Hmmm,” responded Bill, kissing Harry’s temple.

“I think I know how to find out when the dogs on Privet Drive are going to give birth.”

“How’s that, love?” asked Bill, running one palm down Harry’s sweaty side.

“Arabella Figg,” said Harry. “She’s a Squib who lives…”

“Oh right,” said Bill, moving his hand down to Harry’s arse now. “Heard of her.”

“We can put her on watch, have her send a message when the dogs give birth.”

“Brillant,” said Bill. He squeezed Harry’s arse. “You are the clever one.”

Harry’s face grew hot at the compliment, and because Bill was squeezing his bum, which felt all together nice. He had another wild urge to tell Bill he loved him. Instead he said, “Bill? When did Ron run away?”

“Oh, back a long time ago,” Bill answered. “He was a just little kid. It was scary and Mum of course was in hysterics. Then he did it again, summer when he was twelve, seemed a bit more serious about it that time.” Bill frowned.

“But why did he run away?” Harry wanted to know.

Bill sat them both up, without completely letting go of Harry, looked around for his wand. “That’s Ron’s story, love. You’re going to have to ask him…Ah.” He had found his wand, it had rolled under the bed. He did some quick cleaning spells. He Accioed Harry’s glasses and handed them to him. “Have a look there, Harry,” he said, pointing to the top of the bureau.

Harry looked up. Hedwig and Pig were perched atop the bureau. Hedwig had a parchment tied to her leg, but somehow she had known that whatever Bill and Harry were doing on the floor was more urgent than what was written on the message. As for Pig, well, the little owl was silent for once. His glittering dark eyes were fixed on Bill and Harry, however, as if he found them acutely interesting. Harry laughed. “How long you supposed those two have been there?”

“No idea, love,” said Bill, smiling. “You had me a bit distracted.”

Harry’s heart soared. The idea that he could distract Bill was intoxicating. He adjusted himself inside his pajama pants and went to fetch the parchment from Hedwig’s leg. As he read the message, he reached blindly with one hand for owl treats.

“Hermione says,” he told Bill, “that any time would be nice. She’s had enough ice cream, thanks, and she’s read two books.”

“All right, then,” said Bill. The older wizard was back on the bed, checking Ron over again.

“You know, mate,” said Harry, “if Pomfrey ever retires, you should apply.”

“Nah,” said Bill, preoccupied by an oozing wound on Ron’s bicep. “I’d have to nominate Charlie. I don’t do dislocated shoulders. Okay,” he turned back to Harry. “Go to the bathroom and wash that ‘I just got shagged’ look off your face, then go find the twins and send them after Hermione. Tell them I said they need to pay for whatever ice cream and books she’s bought. And if they have a problem with it, they can come discuss it with me.”

Harry did as Bill had asked. He washed his face and tried to neaten up his hair. He had a hard time leaving the bathroom however. Looking in the mirror, he couldn’t believe any one could look at him and not see that Bill had been all over him. Even the toilet commented that he was looking ever so pleased and relaxed. Finally he left the bathroom in search of the twins. They were standing over the sink, talking in low voices as they watched the dishes magically wash themselves.

“Oy, Fred, George,” Harry said.

The twins looked up. “How’s Ron, then?” asked George. “Still out?”

Harry nodded and told them about Hermione and Bill’s request that they go fetch her.

“Head Boy says we’re to go, huh?” said Fred. “Well, we’re off then. Miss Gin,” he called to his sister who was on the couch openly snogging Dean, “duty is calling. You’ll have to finish up with the dishes.”

“Sod off,” Ginny responded. She turned back to her boyfriend, but Dean held her back with a hand on her shoulder.

“Erm, Ginny,” he said. “We could help out a bit.”

“Ah, a polite house guest,” said George as he and Fred headed toward the fireplace. “Ten points for Gryffindor.”

“Mum brought me up right,” said Dean, a grin on his handsome face. He dragged the balking Ginny to the sink by one hand.

George and Fred jumped into the fireplace together, spun once in a puff of smoke and were gone.

Harry decided to beat a hasty retreat up the stairs before Ginny or Dean tried to engage him in conversation.

He found Bill sitting on the edge of Ron’s bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs. He seemed sad and weary to Harry and Harry remembered wanting earlier to comfort him. He crawled onto the bed and slipped his body behind Bill’s. He tugged at the older wizard until they were both leaning back against the bed headboard, Bill settled comfortably between Harry’s legs and his back against Harry’s chest.

“This’s nice,” said Bill, as if he were a bit surprised. “I’m not squashing you am I?”

“Nope,” said Harry, though Bill’s shoulders were a little heavy against his lungs. He squirmed a bit and suddenly Bill’s body slid into a perfect fit against his. Harry was so happy, he wound his arms about Bill’s chest and laid his head against Bill’s. Bill clasped Harry’s arms with one hand and reached back with the other to stroke Harry’s hair.

Harry had slipped into a comfortable daze when he heard Hermione’s voice on the stairs. He nudged Bill and the two sat up, shaking themselves out of their individual reveries. Bill spoke to the door and it swung open.

A girl appeared in the doorway, a rather beautiful girl with short dark curling hair. “Harry!” said a delighted voice. It was Hermione’s voice. Harry tried to look around the pretty girl to find Hermione.

“Well, look at you, Hermione,” said Bill, looking up with interest.

Harry’s mouth dropped open. The lovely girl in the doorway was Hermione. “Hermione?” he said. “Hermione?”

“Oh, Harry,” laughed Hermione. “You are so thick sometimes.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest because Hermione did look radically different, but Bill elbowed him before he could speak.

“It’s just a haircut, Harry,” said Hermione, blushing.

But it wasn’t. True, the short haircut brought out Hermione’s naturally pretty features and without that enormous shock of hair, her dark eyes seemed suddenly huge. But there was more. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips were pinker than they’d ever been. And the robes she was wearing were of a different cut. They almost seemed to hug her body.

“All grown up, Hermione,” said Bill, approvingly. “Those robes, is that what they’re wearing on the continent these days?”

“Latest fashion,” said Hermione, grimacing. “Believe it or not Viktor Krum is a connoisseur of women’s fashions. These robes are Veela cut. Viktor wanted to buy them for me. I said no. He insisted and, well, it got quite ridiculous. In the end, I bought them myself just to shut him up. Of course, the slim cut made my hair look as wild as Hagrid’s so Mum and I went to a salon. Mummy got a cut too and I must say she looks fabulous.”

“You do too,” said Bill and Harry nodded.

Hermione’s cheeks were now pink with pleasure. She came over now to give Harry her customary hug. But she stopped dead when she caught sight of Ron on the bed behind Harry and Bill. “Oh,” she said, obviously shocked. “Ginny tried to warn me, but, goodness, he looks positively dreadful. His arms are horrid, aren’t they?” She turned worried eyes to Harry. “Ginny says he’s been cutting, but that looks worse than any cutting I’ve ever seen.”

“You’ve seen cutting before?” Harry was surprised.

“Oh yes,” said Hermione, still staring at Ron. The pinkness had left her cheeks. “My cousin, Louise, cut herself for a while…after her father died. She said it was the only thing that helped her. She wore long-sleeves to hide what she was doing…of course, there was an absolute uproar in the family when she was found out.”

“You want uproar,” Bill commented wryly, “you’ve come to the right place.”

“Oh, your mum’s in a right state,” agreed Hermione. Harry saw her alert eyes jump from Bill’s face to his, then back to Bill’s. Bill’s face was open. Hermione’s eyes narrowed just a fraction.

Oh shit, thought Harry, there she goes again…figuring things out. There’s a down side, he decided, to being best mates with the smartest person in the world. “Erm, Hermione” he said, fumbling a bit. “Ron says the pain distracts him from, erm, stuff…it’s a long story.”

“Why don’t you two go for a walk,” Bill suggested. “Fill her in, Harry. I’ll stay here with Ron.”

Harry nodded. Hermione had, however, walked to the foot of Ron’s bed.

“What this?” she asked, putting her hand on Ron’s ankle. “You’ve got him tied to the bed?”

Bill sighed, “That’s part of the long story, Hermione. Harry will fill you in.”

Harry got up. He wanted to go with Hermione, but he also felt very reluctant to leave Bill. For fuck’s sake, he thought, suddenly realizing he wanted a good-bye kiss. Well that’s out of the question. “Let’s go, Hermione,” he said.

Hermione turned reluctantly away from the bed. Her eyes lingered on Ron.

Harry and Hermione were starting down the stairs when Bill called Harry back.

“You go down,” Harry said to Hermione. “I’ll only be a moment.”

“Do you mind running down to the other bedroom,” Bill said when Harry stepped back into Ron’s room. “And bringing me the book I’ve been reading?”

Harry did as Bill asked. He brought him his book. And before he left the room again, he got his goodbye kiss.


	13. Chapter 13

  
Author's notes:

This is a serial, updated about once a week...just a friendly heads-up for people who prefer to read finished pieces.

Betaed by [Brumeux77](http://astele.co.uk/TheQuidditchPitch/Chapter/Details/viewuser.php?uid=1234)

* * *

Harry and Hermione met Mrs. Weasley on the stairs as they were going down.  Mrs. Weasley had a plate of food in her hand.

“Taking lunch to Bill,” she said wearily.  “Suppose he’ll be up there til the cows come home.”

“Molly,” said Hermione and Harry’s eyebrow went up at Hermione’s use of Mrs. Weasley’s given name.  “Let me take that.  You look exhausted.”

Mrs. Weasley waved Hermione off.  “Never mind, dear,” she said.  “You just go with Harry…have a nice chat.”

Hermione put her hand on Mrs. Weasley’s shoulder.  “Honestly, Molly, you should take a nap.  I know things have been hard on you.”

“Thanks, love,” said Mrs. Weasley.  Harry was surprised to see her eyes sparkle with tears.  “But I haven’t had a nap since my lot was born.  I’m afraid if I lie down now, I might never get up.”

She means it, thought Harry, grimly.  That’s what she did after Robin died, wasn’t it?  Went to bed for months.  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Weasley,” he said, wanting desperately to make things better.  “Have a lie down.  If you don’t get up, we’ll all Ennervate you at once.”

“Tut,” said Mrs. Weasley, brushing past them and heading up the stairs.  “You’ll have me feeling like a teenager and then what will happen?  More children, I dare say…”  She turned a corner on the stairs.

Harry found himself blushing madly but Hermione was laughing.  “Come on, Harry,” Hermione said.  “Let’s find some sandwiches and take them out to the pond.  Ginny says there’s a siren living there.

It was warm out at the pond, but pleasant underneath an old oak tree so large its limbs extended over the water.  Harry and Hermione ate their lunch and drank chilled lemonade, while Harry tried to fill Hermione in on everything that had happened since he’d arrived at the Burrow.  (“Singing,” Hermione said incredulously.  “Ron used to sing?  He used to spontaneously levitate?  He’s sky climbing?”)  Harry didn’t bring up his new relationship with Bill.  He had the feeling Hermione would get around to quizzing him about that on her own.  Still he found himself repeatedly bringing Bill into the conversation, just for the pleasure of saying his lover’s name.  “Ron’s been so hard on his mum this summer than Bill’s sort of taken him over for her,” he said, going on to explain about Ginny’s twin and how Bill had come to be something more than a big brother to Ron.

Like Harry, Hermione was surprised to hear that Ginny had had a twin.  “I wonder why she’s never mentioned it,” she said, putting her hand back.  “Oh, honestly,” she said, impatiently.  “I keep trying to push my hair back, forgetting it’s not there.”

“I hope you’re ready for all the attention you’re going to get back at school,” Harry commented.  “You really do look wonderful.”

“Oh pfft,” said Hermione, but Harry could tell she was pleased.  “What about you,” she went on.  She reached out to stroke his white shock with one finger.  “I knew you’d gone white, but I didn’t expect it to make you look so different.  Kind of,” she cocked her head to the side, “rakish…and older.  You’re going to be turning some heads.”

“Maybe we should pretend to be a couple,” Harry said, teasingly.  “Protect each other.”

“That’s actually an idea,” said Hermione, thoughtfully.  “Of course we’d have to let Ron in on the secret…can you imagine the sulk he’d have otherwise?”

Harry could.  Maybe we better skip the couple idea, he thought to himself.  If Bill’s right and Ron fancies both me and Hermione, he’d have a right fit even if he knew we were pretending.  Another thought occurred to him—on the other hand, it might force Ron’s hand.  He might make it plain he fancied Hermione…make it easier for me with Bill.

Hermione seemed deep in thought.  “Harry,” she said suddenly.  “Ginny has mentioned a brother who died.  I only just remembered.  She didn’t say much but I had the distinct impression she was talking about another older brother.”

Harry shook his head.  “Robin was her twin, according to Bill.  Mr. Weasley delivered the baby himself but he didn’t live out the day.  Bill said Robin was about the size of Mr. Weasley’s hand.”

“That’s so sad,” sighed Hermione.  “Can you imagine?  If you were a parent, you’d want desperately to take care of something so tiny and helpless.  When the baby died, it must have just broken Molly’s heart.  It makes me want to cry, Harry.”  She looked out over the pond for a moment.

“You’re way ahead of me, as usual,” Harry said.  “Promise you won’t hate me if I tell you that I was thinking Mrs. Weasley a bit dramatic…going to bed like that…”

“Oh, Harry.”  Hermione hit him lightly on the shoulder.  “You’re so thick—though, at least you have the sense to say it to me and not Molly.  Can you imagine Ron—if he’d been old enough to talk?  He’d have said, ‘what’s the big deal, Mum, so you lost a kid…it’s not like you don’t have seven more.  Now get up and make some breakfast’…the idiot.”

Harry heard the softness in her voice, even as she called Ron an idiot.  I may be thick, he thought, but even I call tell Hermione fancies Ron.  Bill’ll see.  Ron and Hermione are meant to be.

“What are you thinking, Harry?” Hermione’s voice was sharp.

Harry looked at her startled.  Does she read minds now too? Probably.  “Erm, about Ron,” he said.  “And the Weasleys, of course.”

Hermione sighed.  Harry could almost hear her thoughts turning back to Ron.  She sat in silence for a second, her lips pursed and that furrow line on her brow.  “Harry,” she said abruptly.  “Have you actually seen this siren yet?”

“No,” he said.  “Dean hasn’t either.  I’m starting to think only Weasleys can see her.  Ron says she has bad teeth.”

Hermione snorted.  “Trust Ron to focus on the trivial.  You know, Harry, I’ve been thinking.

“Of course you have,” said Harry.

Hermione went on as if he hadn’t spoken.  “You say Ron says Gerard doesn’t like pain.  That he goes away when Ron hurts himself, which is of course why Ron hurts himself.” She shook her head.  “I get it, but it doesn’t really make sense.  Pain wouldn’t mean anything to Gerard.  He’s dead, he can’t feel pain.  He’s not alive in Ron’s head.  His brain just deposited some memories there.  I think Ron might be overwhelmed by Gerard’s memories because they are horrible, right?”

“He certainly seems to be seeing something horrible,” Harry answered, thinking.  “What I saw in his thoughts was bad enough, but he shoved me away so fast, I didn’t see much…Ginny was in there, though, looking terrified…”

“That’s another thing,” Hermione said.  “Why would Ginny be among Gerard’s memories?  It’s not like she’s been around many Death Eaters, has she?”

“I thought maybe during the Tom Riddle business…”

Hermione interrupted him.  “What age does Ginny appear to be?  What kind of clothes is she wearing?”

“I don’t know,” Harry answered.  “What you see in someone’s head is a little muzzy, impressionistic, you know.  I clearly saw her face, but don’t remember any clothes, to tell you the truth.”

“We need to find out when Gerard died,” Hermione said, clearly way ahead of Harry again.  “To find out if Gerard and Ginny’s paths could have crossed.  Who knows, Ginny might not have been born yet when Gerard died.  Maybe one of Ron’s memories got tangled up with one of Gerard’s.  Did Dumbledore say that only memories could be pulled out of someone’s head?  What about dreams, fantasies, nightmares?”

“He didn’t get into all that,” Harry said, thinking back on his trips into the Pensieve.  “His memories were so crystal clear, it was like I was really there.  Ron’s were more like jumbled images jumping out at me.”

Hermione turned and looked back at the Burrow.  “I have a feeling,” she said, softly “that all of the pieces of this puzzle are here in this house.  Obviously Arthur and Molly have some pieces because they seem to know about Gerard.  Ron has the other pieces.  Now the thing is to make him talk.”  Hermione looked determined and Harry felt sorry for Ron.  He knew how relentless Hermione could be.

“Promise me you won’t hold Ron’s feet in the fire,” he said.  “Go a little gentle on him, okay?”

Hermione seemed surprised.  “Are you saying I’m hard, Harry?”

“Hermione,” Harry said.  “You’re wonderfully gentle with people like Neville, but with Ron, you’re about as gentle as a blast-ended Skrewt.”

 “Oh, all right, Harry,” said Hermione, turning pink.  “But Ron is so thick sometimes, he has the emotional range of a…”

“Not anymore, Hermione,” Harry said firmly.  “Not right now.  Last night, Mrs. Weasley forced him to show his arms last night and it was bloody awful for him.  And I think it’s going to get worse.  I think Mr. and Mrs. Weasley are going to call a family meeting tonight, when Ron wakes up.  Mrs. Weasley is going to make him talk and I’m sure she’ll threaten him with St. Mungo’s…”

“Well of course he needs to see a healer,” Hermione said hotly.  “Especially if he’s walking out of windows, for heaven’s sake.  Harry, I wonder…” Hermione’s quick mind seemed to have taken another detour.  She fell silent and Harry saw her reach back unconsciously for her hair again.  Her hand twirled in the air when she couldn’t find it.

Habit, Harry thought.  If I suddenly got perfect eyesight and didn’t need glasses any more, I’d probably still be trying to push mine up.  He had one finger on his glasses, pushing them up before he’d even completed the thought.

“Control,” said Hermione, finally.  “That’s why this is about.”

“Okay,” said Harry, waiting for Hermione to fill him in.

“Cutting is about control,” said Hermione.  “Louise cut herself because she said it gave her a sense of relief, took her mind away from her dad’s death.  She said cutting hurt and she wanted it to hurt and hurt a lot…because physical pain was preferable to how bad it hurt to lose her dad.  She managed to stop, but she started again when her grief over her dad started to lessen.  She said it felt like she should be in pain, and when she started to feel better it was like she was betraying her dad.  So she started cutting again.”  Hermione sighed.  “Cutting’s kind of complicated, it means different things to different people.”

“Go on,” said Harry.  He still didn’t quite get it, but thought he was getting closer.  

“I have a feeling,” said Hermione, “that it feels to Ron like Gerard’s alive and trying to take over his mind.  Ron’s afraid he’s going to lose control and do something terrible…something Gerard Flint would do.  Why else would he send me his wand if he didn’t trust himself?  But Gerard’s as dead as a doornail.  Even if his brain managed to deposit some of its nasty memories among Ron’s own memories, it’s still Ron’s head, isn’t it?  Ron needs to learn to force Gerard’s memories back.  He can control what he thinks of and what he doesn’t, can’t he?”

“Erm, Hermione,” said Harry, “Controlling memories is pretty hard.”  He thought about how hard it had been for the past few days to keep Bill out of his mind.

“Is it?”  Hermione furrowed her brow.  “I don’t seem to have unwanted memories bobbing about in my brain.”

“Maybe that’s because your brain is so busy all the time, Hermione,” Harry said a tad impatiently.  “Your brain goes a million miles an hour.  My brain, and Ron’s too, tends to float around a bit.  You know those times when we’re staring into space, looking like we’re thinking of nothing…well, we really are thinking of nothing.”

“Pfft…” said Hermione.  “You can’t be thinking of nothing.  You might be off in your mind on your broom somewhere and Ron might be dreaming of, you know, making some spectacular save, or Madam Rosmerta’s cleavage, for heaven’s sake, but you’re thinking.”

“Hermione,” Harry said wearily.  “It’s just not that easy.  I don’t think that concentrating on Rosmerta’s cleavage is going to make Gerard’s thoughts go away.”

“Oh, of course not,” said Hermione, irritated.  “But Ron can learn to control his thoughts.  You’ve done it, haven’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“With the Dementors, silly,” said Hermione.  “The Dementors forced you to think of things you didn’t want to…to relive your worst memories…and you learned to thrust those memories away and think of something wonderful in order to produce your Patronus.”

“Ah,” said Harry.  She was right, he couldn’t really argue with her logic.  “But Hermione, it was hard…it took a lot of work.”

“You sound like you think Ron’s not capable of hard work, Harry,” snapped Hermione.  “There’s no magic here…at least not if you pass over the Patronus and a disembodied brain attacking someone…it’s just hard work and mental discipline we’re talking about…”

Harry and Hermione argued all the way back to the Burrow.  Hermione seemed to think he was shortchanging Ron a bit.  “He’s got more mental discipline than he knows,” she said.  Harry thought that wrestling Gerard’s unwanted thoughts back might be a snap for Hermione, but for Ron…well he remembered what it was like to have the Dementors forcing memories on him.  He also remembered what it was like to be sharing his mind with Voldemort…and how he’d started to actually look forward to it.  He hadn’t told Hermione about that part, and didn’t intend to now.

They walked into the kitchen to find Charlie awake and shoveling in food as he sat at the kitchen table.

“Hello, Charlie,” said Hermione, warmly.  “Nice to see you.”

Charlie did a double take.  “Er-my-knee?” he said, his mouth full of food.

“None other,” said Hermione, raising one eyebrow.

Charlie swallowed.  “You look different, erm, I mean wonderful…shit!”  His eyes flicked over Hermione.  Harry was glad he wasn’t the only one to act like an idiot at the sight of Hermione.  He couldn’t wait to see what Ron would say when he woke up.

“Stop looking at her like she’s a piece of meat, Charlie, you arse.”  Ginny’s voice came from the stairs.  She bounced into the kitchen and smacked Charlie on the top of the head.

Dean, who had followed her, sat down on the bottom stair.  Clever bloke, Harry thought.  If there’s going to be trouble amongst the Weasley siblings, Dean’s going to stay well out of the way.

“Can’t help it, Gin,” said Charlie, good-naturedly.  “Call me blind.  I just didn’t realize Hermione was such a good-looking woman…in fact,” his eyes turned mischievously back to Hermione.  “I didn’t realize she was a woman at all…I thought she was just a kid like you lot.”

Ginny pulled her wand out of her back pocket.  “I’m going to give you such a bat-bogey,” she said.

“Expelliarmus!” said Charlie.  He was so fast, Harry didn’t even see his wand.  Ginny’s wand flew from her hand and out the kitchen window.  “Never tell your opponent what you’re about to do, little sis,” he said, turning back to his lunch.

“Thanks for defending my honor, Ginny,” Hermione said, dryly.  “But I didn’t really want to see Charlie’s bogeys.  Accio.”  Ginny’s wand soared back into the kitchen, doing an elaborate twirl in the air before it slid itself back into Ginny’s pocket.”

“Excellent, bravo.”  The twins had popped up from the couch by the fire, where they’d apparently been lounging the whole time.

“I call for a duel tonight,” said George.  “Hermione against Charlie.  Winner gets a free sample of a new product we’re working on…”

“Right,” Fred said, enthusiastically.  “Hermione your breasts can be as big, if not bigger, than Millicent Bulstrode’s.  And, Charlie, if we really tried, we could probably make your bits as big as Bill’s.”

“BAT-BOGEY,” Charlie, Hermione and Ginny shouted together.  The twins ducked back behind the couch just in time.

“Mine was the closest,” said Ginny, tucking her wand back in her pocket.

“Sorry Gin,” said Charlie.  “Yours bounced off the mantel piece.  Mine’s the one that put a hole in the couch.”

“Well you better go fix it, then,” said Ginny smartly.  “Or Mum will do something worse to you than bat-bogeys.”

“True,” said Charlie.  “I’ll fix it after lunch.  By the way, Gin, Hermione, aren’t you two a little young to be using magic outside of Hogwarts?”

“If Mum didn’t see,” said Ginny defiantly, “it didn’t happen.  Unless you’re going to tell on us.”

“Who do you take me for?” asked Charlie, pretending to be offended. “Percy?”  He started making another sandwich, keeping one eye, Harry noted, on Ginny.

Dean, deciding apparently it was safe to get off the steps, wandered over to the fireplace.  “Oy,” he said, leaning over the back of the couch.

“Hullo, Dean.  You’ll be wanting some of our product, no doubt?” Fred’s voice floated up from the other side of the couch.  “To inflate Ginny’s bitty little Bristols?”

Dean dove behind a chair without bothering to look behind him.

“Now, really, Dean,” said Ginny, laughing.  “Did you really think I’d hex you just because my brothers are pigs?”

“No.” Dean’s careful voice came from behind the chair.  “Just didn’t want to get caught in the cross-fire.”  There was a pause.  Then:  “Blimey, George, are you okay?”

“No.”  George’s voice was calm.  “Headache.”

Fred sat up.  Harry could see his ginger head now.  He, Hermione and Ginny went over to the couch.  George was lying with his head in Fred’s lap.  His lips were pressed together and he looked rather white.   Fred’s fingers dug into his brother’s thick hair, rubbing.

“Georgie gets headaches,” explained Fred.  “They make him puke if I don’t get to him fast enough.”

“I get headaches,” said George, he had his eyes closed, “because I’m the smart one.  I have to do the thinking for two.”

“Yeah, you’re the smart one,” said Fred.  He was frowning, concentrating on the crown of George’s head.  “Me, I’m the conscience, the voice of morality.”

“If you’re the voice of morality,” said Hermione, “I’d hate to hear the voice of immorality.”

“She’s right, Fred,” said George.  “It’s terrible when the voice of morality resorts to blackmail.”

Ludo Bagman? Harry thought.  Then again, who knows?  The twins are capable of anything.  Who knows how many people they’ve blackmailed?

“Say what you want, brother,” Fred looking down at George.  “But right now, I have you totally at my mercy.  Tell me what you’d do right now if I stopped rubbing your ickle head.”

“I’d cry, I’d beg and I’d puke,” admitted George.  “Nobody wants to see that…so just keep rubbing.  Ah…there’s a good boy…”

“I am good,” said Fred modestly.  “Hey, Harry,” the redhead suddenly looked up, grinning wickedly.  “How about you?  Any more headaches?  Scar burning?  Anything you need me to rub?”

“Erm, no,” said Harry, backing away.  “No headaches…”

“I give Fred the highest recommendation,” said George, opening one eye.  “That’s the spot, Fred…Fred’s hands work miracles.  If you ever need a rub, just stick your head in the fireplace and we’ll be there in a flash.”

“Stop it,” said Ginny.  She turned to Harry.  “They’re giving you their dirty double-talk, in case you didn’t know.”  She turned back to her brothers.  “Leave him alone, you bloody pervs…Harry’s not yours…”

She sounds like Bill, Harry thought.

“I beg your pardon, Ginny,” said Fred, lightly.  “But as far as I know, Harry is unspoken for…”

Harry exchanged an uncomfortable look with Hermione.

“It’s Pureblood talk,” Hermione said softly.  “I’ll explain later.”

Harry nodded.

“Hey!”  Charlie’s voice came from the table.  It was sharp, startling them all.  “That’s enough, Fred.  Take care of George and shut your mouth.  There rest of you lot, let’s get dinner on.”

“What are you on about?” said Ginny, amazed.  “You’re still eating lunch.  How can you be thinking about dinner?”

“I got up late,” Charlie replied.  “That doesn’t mean Dad isn’t going to be home in an hour.  He’ll be hungry and someone needs to get dinner so it might as well as be us, Ginny.”

“But where’s Mum?” asked Ginny, going over to help her brother in the kitchen.

“She’s taking a nap, believe it or not,” said Charlie.  “No, she’s not sick,” he went on when Ginny started to interrupt.  “And no, I’ve never know her to take a nap before.  But for some reason she’s taken a notion to today…maybe this stuff with Ron’s worn her out…doesn’t hurt us to help out anyway.”

Ginny nodded, opening drawers and pulling out vegetables.

“I’m thinking stew,” said Charlie, putting on an apron.

“Charlie,” called Fred from the couch, “you look sweet, a dragon-wrangler in an apron…”

“He’s right,” said George, sitting up to look.  “I’ll mention your name if I meet someone needs a wife, a hairy wife who shoots fire from her—“

“One more word,” said Charlie, without bothering to look at the twins, “and I’m taking you boys out back.”

“I’m sick,” whined George, lying back down.

“And I’m taking care of him,” said Fred.  He stuck out his tongue at Charlie’s back.

Harry started looking for something he could do to help in the kitchen.  He knew his way around a kitchen, at least a non-magical one. He’d certainly cooked enough at the Dursley’s.

“Harry, Hermione,” Charlie said.  “Go on back upstairs and have a look at Bill and Ron, all right?  Ginny, Dean and I can handle dinner, can’t we?”

“Yup,” said Ginny.  “Can I use magic, Charlie?”

“Nope,” said Charlie, handing her a knife.  “Get chopping.”

“I don’t need magic,” said Dean.  He took a knife too.  “My mum’s had me in the kitchen since I could walk.  Bet I can cook circles around you, Ginny.”

“That wouldn’t be hard…”  Charlie’s voice floated after Harry and Hermione as they walked up the stairs.

“Wait here,” said Harry to Hermione when they got to the landing on the fifth floor.  The door to Ron’s room was shut.  “Ron might have decided to go running.  Let me make sure he’s decent.”

Hermione nodded.

Harry pushed open the door and stuck his head inside.  What he saw made his heart drop to his shoes.  Bill was asleep, turned on his side, his gorgeously long hair streaming over the side of the narrow bed.  He had curled behind Ron, who was also on his side.  Bill’s arm was thrown protectively over his brother.  The sight made Harry feel absolutely ravenous.  He wanted Hermione to go away so he could slip onto the bed behind Bill.

Motioning for Hermione to wait, Harry slipped into the room and knelt next to the bed.  “Bill,” he whispered.

“What time is it?” Bill asked without opening his eyes.

“Dunno,” said Harry.  He couldn’t resist stroking the bright hair that fell over the bed.  “Nearly time for your Dad to get home.”

Bill sat up.  His hair slipped through Harry’s fingers.  Bill rubbed his eyes and yawned.  “Where’s Hermione?” he asked.

“Outside the door.”

Bill rolled his eyes at Harry.  “Let’s invite her in, shall we?  What did you think Ron and I were doing in here?  Shagging?”

“I thought Ron might be wanting a run.  I wanted to save Hermione the sight of him putting on his Chudley Cannons support cup,” Harry said, giving Bill an impudent pinch on the thigh.

“Ah, clever boy.”  Bill cupped Harry’s cheek for a moment, gave him a quick kiss.  “Sit,” he said, pulling Harry up on the bed.  “Come on in, Hermione,” he called.

Hermione peeked cautiously around the door before entering.  “Not awake yet?” she asked, going to the foot of the bed and putting one hand on Ron’s ankle.

Ron sat up suddenly.  “Whozzat?” he croaked.  He peered at Hermione through bleary eyes.

“It’s Hermione, idiot,” said Bill, turning quickly to look at his brother.  He leaned over and tapped his wand on the rope binding Ron’s ankle to the bed.  The rope vanished immediately.

Ron stared at Hermione.  He rubbed his eyes and shook his head.  “Where’s ‘Ermione?”  He looked dully about the room.

“In front of your nose, Ron,” said Bill, gesturing at Hermione.

Ron stared at the foot of the bed.

Hermione waved.

“That’s not ‘Ermione, Bill,” Ron said thickly.  “She’s not that good-lookin’”

“Oh shut up, Ronnie,” said Bill, wincing.  “Of course it’s Hermione.”

“Nope,” said Ron.  He pushed at Harry, clambered over Bill to get out of bed.  Once on his feet, he swayed, catching hold of Bill’s shoulder to steady himself.  “George and Fred,” he mumbled.  “Fuckers spun me, again…” he mumbled.

“Spun you?” Harry stared at Ron.  His mate looked groggy, absolutely drunk.

“Yeah,” said Ron, slurring.  “Bastards.”  He stumbled toward the door.

“Hullo, Ron,” said Hermione.  She stepped toward him.

“’Lo, gorgeous,” Ron said, “whoever you are.”  He brushed past Hermione on his way out.  “Gotta piss right now, but hang around and we’ll have a go when I get back.”

“Oh, for shit’s sake,” said Bill, grimacing.  “Sorry about that Hermione.  He’s not himself these days.”

“Doesn’t seem that different to me,” said Hermione, one eyebrow going up.  Harry noticed she didn’t seem particularly displeased, her face was flushed.

Harry got up and followed Ron out to make sure the redhead didn’t fall flat on his face.  He reached the landing in time to see the upstairs bathroom door swung shut.  He stood there a moment, listening.  Ron was taking a rather forceful piss and the toilet was chatting cheerfully to him.

“That urine seems a bit concentrated, dear,” it said.  “You might want to drink more water.”

“Piss on you,” Ron growled.  His voice was loud.

“That’s the general idea, love,” said the toilet.

Harry glanced over at Hermione.  She was standing right next to him and had heard everything too.

The toilet flushed.

Hermione rolled her eyes.  “Charming,” she said.  “Absolutely charming.”  



	14. Chapter 14

  
Author's notes:

This is a serial, updated about once a week...just a friendly heads-up for people who prefer to read finished pieces.

Betaed by [Brumeux77](http://astele.co.uk/TheQuidditchPitch/Chapter/Details/viewuser.php?uid=1234)

* * *

  
Back in the bedroom, Hermione picked up the book Bill had been reading.  “Jane Austen,” she said.  “You read Muggle fiction?

“Sure,” said Bill.  “Back in my day, Muggle literature was a part of Muggle Studies.”

“Oh,” said Hermione.  “It might still be. I dropped Muggle studies after third year.”

“Dad’s so Muggle crazy,” Bill said.  “He kept me and Charlie in Muggle Studies til seventh year.  Percy wouldn’t hear of it.  I think he wishes Mum and Dad had raised us to be a little more blood proud, the git.”  Bill took the book from Hermione’s hands.  “Austen interests me,” he said thoughtfully, “because the society she writes about it so rigid—it’s really close to Pureblood high society...”

“Oh,” said Hermione, eagerly.  “I’d love to talk to you about cultural dynamics sometimes.  I’ve certainly run into prejudice and cultural assumptions in the Muggle world, but they were nothing like the ones in the wizarding world.”

“What prejudices did you run into in the Muggle world, Hermione?” Harry wondered.

“I’m Jewish,” Hermione said, glancing briefly at Harry.

“Oh,” said Harry.  He had heard Uncle Vernon carp on Jews before, but he couldn’t really remember what his uncle had said.  Uncle Vernon carped on so many different groups of people, it was hard to sort out which group had committed what offense.  He wondered why Hermione had never mentioned being Jewish before.

Hermione had already turned back to Bill.  “As a Jew, as a woman…”

“Woman?”  Harry wondered when Hermione had become a woman.  

“…I grew up with all sorts of cultural messages about who I was supposed to be,” Hermione went on, not sparing Harry a glance.  “Assumptions about Jews, of course, were much worse for my parents and grandparents…my grandparents were kids during the Holocaust…”

Bill nodded.  “The Holocaust crossed over into the wizarding world, the big wars always do.”  He shook his head.  “Just like our war with You-Know-Who is going to cross over into the Muggle world.”

“Exactly,” said Hermione.  “My parents are rather worried about me being at school when there’s a war on.  I told them the war was going to cross boundary lines and that I was better off being fully armed and prepared…they had to agree with my logic.”

“If you’d been the one with the scar on your head,” Harry said to no one in particular, “Voldemort would be dead by now.”  Bill’s arm twitched slightly against Harry’s when Harry mentioned Voldemort.  Hermione kept right on talking, rapidly and a bit breathlessly like she always did when she was excited.    

“When I got to Hogwarts,” she was saying, “the whole emphasis on blood purity, well, it was a bit of culture shock, but I can’t say it was completely unfamiliar.”

“I know what you mean about culture shock,” said Bill, nodding.  “I was absolutely gobsmacked when I went to Egypt and integrated more into Muggle society.  Some of the things Muggles get brassed off about,” he glanced at Harry, “just aren’t an issue in our world.”

“Right,” said Hermione, her face alight.  “Like sexual orientation, skin color, religion, weight,” she ticked them off on her finger.  “In the wizarding world, it all seems to be about the blood.”

“Yeah,” said Bill, nodding.  “Blood’s the big one.  He glanced again at the book in his hands.  Harry could see the title now, Sense and Sensibility.  He hadn’t bothered to look when he fetched the book for Bill; he’d been too intent on getting his kiss.  

“Of course,” Bill went on, “Austen shows that bloodlines were once just as important in Muggle cultures.  And that’s the thing.  A lot of Purebloods think Muggle society is breaking down, becoming corrupt and that allowing Muggles to cross our borders and become part of our world invites in Muggle corruption.”

 Hermione nodded.  “I’ve heard such suggestions as divisions between Muggle-born wizards and pureblood wizards.  ‘Let them build their own schools’ and that sort of thing.”

Harry don’t know how long Hermione and Bill would have talked, Hermione, he was sure could have gone on for hours, but at that moment Ron walked back into the room.

“Hullo, Hermione,” he said, dully.  “Sorry about being such a prat.  You look good.”  He flopped down on the floor and rested his head against Bill’s knee.

“It’s okay, Ron,” Hermione said.  She gave him a very small smile and closed her mouth tight.  Harry had the feeling that if she opened her mouth, about a million questions would fly out.  Just what Ron doesn’t need right now, he thought.

Bill put his hand on Ron’s head.  “You left the room a bit of a monster and came back human,” he said carefully.  “What happened?  Hurt yourself?”

Ron nodded.  “Wrenched my shoulder pretty good…took the piss out of Gerard.”

Bill just nodded but his mouth became a thin hard line.

Ron tipped his head back to look at Bill.  “Aw, come on, Billy,” he said mournfully.  “It was an accident.  I fell into the door on my bad side.  Whatever the twins gave me was fucking powerful stuff…I was woozy...still am a bit...” He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands.

“Oi.”  A voice broke in.  Charlie was at the door.  “You lot ready for dinner?” he asked.  “Ron, you slept the day away, you must be hungry.”

When Ron merely grunted, Harry said, “why does it always seem like it’s time to eat in this house?”

“It seems that way to you, punk,” said Charlie, poking Harry in the ribs, “cuz your Muggle arsewipes never fed you.  You don’t even know what a proper appetite is.  Tell you what, sit next to me at dinner, right?  Eat what I eat and next thing you know, you’ll be able to do this…”  Charlie flexed, popping up large, blue-veined biceps.  He grinned, posing again in a manner his neck thicken and his large chest strain the material of his muscle shirt.

“Uh Charlie,” said Bill. “You look like you’re posing for a porn mag.”

“I expect one to be calling any day,” said Charlie, modestly, striking another pose.  “How does this spread sound?  Firebreathing Hot, Romania’s Rugged Dragon Keepers.”  

“Nauseating,” said Ron sourly from the floor.  “And why does Harry want to be a gorilla like you anyway?  So he can be Malfoy’s next bodyguard?”

Charlie squatted down next to Ron.  He flicked Ron’s chin.  “Maybe you’re the one who needs a bodyguard, right now, little brother,” he said.    

Ron glowered at him, wrapping an arm around Bill’s leg.  

Charlie grinned.  “I don’t think the big guy’s going to protect you this time, Ronnie,” he said glancing up at Bill.  “What do you think, Bill?  Does the kid look sleepy to you?  Think he could use a wake up?”

Bill gave Ron a sympathetic pat on the head.  “Wellll…” he said.  “I was thinking he could do with a shower.  Maybe a brisk and bracing one…”

“A cold shower it is, then,” said Charlie firmly.  

“Hey!” shouted Ron.  “You gits aren’t gonna…”

“Actually, Ron, we are,” said Charlie.  “Up you go.”  He grabbed Ron under the armpits and hauled him to his feet.

“Oi, fuck, Charlie,” howled Ron.  “Are you trying to rip my shoulder off?”

“Sorry about that, mate,” said Charlie.  Harry noted the older redhead didn’t look too sorry.  Charlie let go of Ron’s bad arm, kept the good one firmly in his grasp.  

“Leggo, wanker,” Ron said, angrily, trying to shake Charlie off.  “I don’t need a shower.”

“Yeah, you do,” said Charlie, propelling Ron toward the door with one hand in the small of his back.  “You smell like Mundungus’ feet.”

“Do not.” Ron sound like a petulant kid.  He lifted one long leg and planted his foot against the wall.

Bill was laughing.  He put his hand on Harry’s shoulder.  “Get Hermione out of here, Harry,” he said.  “This is going to get ugly.”

Charlie wrapped his big arms around Ron’s waist and lifted him off the ground.  Ron put a foot on either side of the door and locked his knees.  He pushed back against Charlie.  “I am not taking a fucking shower,” he said, grunting as he struggled against Charlie.  

“That looks like me trying to get Crookshanks into his cat carrier,” commented Hermione, ducking under one of Ron’s legs.  “I think I will leave, thanks.”

“Run, Hermione,” yelled Charlie, laughing.  He swung Ron away from the door by his waist.  Run and don’t look back!”

Harry followed Hermione out of the room.  He watched her tight curls bouncing as she flew down the stairs and around the corner.  The noises from Ron’s bedroom were grower louder.  Ron was shouting, Bill and Charlie were laughing and Harry could hear the general sound of a scuffle.  Something hit the wall and he thought it might have been Jane Austen.  He heard the cot being kicked around.  Then the sound of breaking glass.

“Oops.”  Bill’s voice came from the room.  “Reparo.”

“Let. Me. Go!” Ron shouted, his voice hoarse.

“Crikey.”  That was Charlie.  “Let’s brush his teeth too.”

“Hey, leave my pants alone, pervert.  AND GET OFF!”  (Ron again.)

“Aw, come on, Ronnie.  Shower’ll do you a world of good.”  (Charlie)

“Hands off my arse, motherfucker!” (Ron)

“Mum’s not going to like that one, Ronnie.” (Charlie)

“Ow!” (Ron)

“I think you’re hurting him, Charlie.”  (Bill)

“I thought that was a good thing these days.” (Charlie)

“You’re right.  Chuck him here.” (Bill)

Suddenly the door swung in.  Harry jumped as it slammed against the wall.  Bill strode out of the room with Ron thrown over his shoulder.  Ron was stark naked and struggling, his head down and his scrawny freckled arse in the air.  He was fighting, kicking and swearing, beating Bill’s back with his fists.

Blimey, thought Harry.  How do I get Bill to do that to me?

************************************************************************

Things turned serious after dinner.  Harry had slipped into a seat next to Bill but restrained himself from doing anything more than pressing his thigh against the older wizard’s.  Harry was also directly across from Ron.  He watched his best mate, his red hair still wet from the shower, poking dispiritedly at his food, and wearing another one of his long-sleeve t-shirts.  Harry noticed Bill was watching Ron as well.  Bill looked troubled again, and that was one of the things helping Harry keep his hands off Bill.

Mrs. Weasley was fidgeting, tapping her fingers on the table, playing with the silver chain around her neck.  “Every one finished?” she suddenly said.

“No,” said George and Ginny.

Mrs. Weasley didn’t seem to hear them.  She jerked her wand to the right and all the dishes flew off the table as though someone had jerked the table cloth from the table.  The dishes didn’t land on the floor, however.  They zipped over to the sink, stacked themselves in neat piles.  Mrs. Weasley didn’t bother to cast the spell to start washing them.  She clearly had other things on her mind.

“Ronald,” she said, sternly.  “I want to see those cuts.”  Before Ron could respond, Mrs. Weasley flicked her wand.  Ron’s long-sleeve shirt disappeared and was replaced by what Harry figured was another one of Charlie’s muscle shirts.  Ron, with his narrow chest, didn’t begin to fill out the shirt.  It hung from his shoulders, its wide neck gapping (Harry could see Ron’s navel).  Really, it was worse than no shirt at all.

“That was harsh,” muttered George.

“SHIT!” Ron screamed.  He leapt to his feet, outraged.

“MUM!”  Bill was angry too.  “That’s a bit brutal.  You don’t have strip him in front of his friends.”

“Like I didn’t just hear you doing the same thing to him upstairs,” retorted Mrs. Weasley, hotly.  “What do you think woke me up?”

“Charlie and I weren’t putting him on display,” Bill shot back.  “Have a care.”

“I am HIS MOTHER!” shouted Mrs. Weasley, suddenly in full temper again.  “DON’T YOU DARE SUGGEST I DON’T CARE.  I’D GIVE MY LIFE FOR ANY ONE OF MY CHILDREN!”

Ron was looking wildly about the room.  He really does look awful, Harry thought.  Ron’s right shoulder was swollen and discolored, the weals on his arms were red and puffed.  The expression on his face was somewhere between despair and fury.  He’s going to run, thought Harry.

“Wait, Ron.”  Arthur Weasley was at his son’s side.  He quickly slipped off his robes and draped them over Ron’s shoulders.  Underneath, he wore a white dress-shirt.  “Sit down, son,” he said, gently.  

Ron collapsed back down at the table.  He buried his face in his arms.  His father’s kindness seemed to have undone him.

“Molly, this is wrong,” said Mr. Weasley.  He put a careful hand on Ron’s good shoulder, keeping his youngest son in place.  He looked at his wife steadily.  “I know you’re upset, dear,” he said, “we all understand you’re beside yourself.  But I can’t allow you to go on if this if you can’t be gentle.”

Mrs. Weasley set her mouth.  She folded her arms and glared, her eyes flicking back and forth between Ron and Mr. Weasley.

“Ron,” Mr. Weasley sat down on the bench next to his son.  “You have to talk to us.  We simply can’t go on like this any longer.”

Ron nodded into his arms.  “’I know,” he said, his voice muffled.  “I can’t do it any more either.”

“Mrs. Weasley,” asked Dean suddenly.  “Do you want us to leave?  Me and Harry and Hermione?”

Mrs. Weasley didn’t answer.  Her mouth was still tight and her arms still folded.  An uncomfortable silence fell in the kitchen.  Hermione got slowly to her feet.  Dean was already standing.  

Harry didn’t move.  He wasn’t leaving, not without a direct order from Ron or Mr. Weasley.  All the times he awakened to find himself in the infirmary, Ron had either been at his bedside or just outside the door.  Harry wanted to stay now, for Ron.  And he had the feeling that Ron needed him to stay.

The silence in the kitchen stretched out, thin and taut as a wire.  To Harry it seemed as if no one in the kitchen was breathing.  Mrs. Weasley shifted her gaze to the kitchen window.  Harry saw tears sparkling in her eyes.  He got reluctantly to his feet.  I’ll come back under the Invisibility Cloak if I have to, he swore to himself.  I’ll find some way of letting Ron know I’m here.

Ron’s head jerked up.  “Harry, no!” he said.  “Stay.”

Harry paused.  Ron’s eyes were bloodshot, his face ashen.  I wouldn’t have left you, mate, Harry wanted to say.  Honest. I would have been here one way or the other.   He sank back down in his seat.

“Arthur,” said Mrs.Weasley suddenly.  Get me a calming drought.”

“I don’t want a calming drought,” said Ron, angrily.

“It’s for me, dear,” said Mrs. Weasley, sighing.  “George, would you put on some tea?”

George got up and Hermione rise quickly to help him.  Harry knew Hermione didn’t want to leave any more than he did.  Dean on the other hand looked bloody uncomfortable, as though he’d really rather be somewhere else.  

Mr. Weasley set a small bottle and a spoon in front of his wife.  He turned to Ron.  “It’s up to you, Ron.  Do you want your friends to stay?”

“I want Harry to stay,” Ron said firmly.  “Hermione too…but Hermione, you sit down there.”  Ron pointed with his chin to the far end of the table.  “Dean, you might as well stick it out too,” he added with a sudden grin.  “Save Ginny the trouble of filling you in later.”

Harry knew that by sending Hermione to the far end of the table, Ron was telling her to keep out.  That’s going to be hard on her, Harry thought.  He knew she’d much rather right next to Ron, pelting him with questions and offering theories.  She took it well, however; she nodded at Ron as she helped George put the tea things on the table.

Mrs. Weasley picked up the bottle of calming draught, ignoring the spoon.  She put the bottle to her lips and took a long hard pull.

“Blimey, Mum,” said George in alarm.  “Watch it, you’ll get all aled up.”

Mrs. Weasley waved him off.  Fred went quickly to get a glass of water for his mother.  “Thanks dear,” she said absently, putting the water to one side.  She sat for a long moment, playing with her silver necklace, turning its small locket in her fingers.  Finally she sighed and folded her hands on the table.  “Ronald,” she said.  “Some of those cuts are infected.  I’d like to clean them.”

Ron nodded shortly.  He didn’t look at his mother.

“About your shirt, dear, I’m sorry,” she went on, her eyes suddenly welling with tears.  “I’ve just been so worried about you and you won’t have anything to do with me.  You know me,” she wiped at her eyes and blew her nose on her napkin.  “My temper.  I get angry when I feel helpless.”

Ron said nothing, but he looked a little ashamed.

“Okay, Mum,” George came to stand behind his mother.  He squeezed her shoulders. “Everyone knows about the famous Prewett temper.”

“Will you let me tend to the shoulder, Ron?” asked Mrs. Weasley.

Ron still wouldn’t look at his mother.  He was drawing pictures with one finger on the tablecloth.  “Let’s let the shoulder go for now,” he said.  “Just the infected cuts, right now, okay?  George, can you and Fred make a poultice?”

“Absobloodylutely,” said George.  “What were you thinking, tea tree? Bryony root?”

“I don’t have any bryony root,” said Mrs. Weasley.

“I thought that was for horses hooves,” Hermione said.

“Sure,” said Fred.  “But it does well on infection too.  Dragon’s blood’s would be just the ticket.”

“Too bad it’s rarer than rocking horse shit,” said Charlie.  “Not even I can get Dragon’s blood.”

“Dragon’s blood would be overkill,” said Ron.  “I don’t have a massive infection here.”  He watched his finger trace its patterns on the table.  “White willow bark would work fine.” he said.  “I know we have that.  He turned to the twins.  “Boil some bark, the ground stuff…two half-hands of bark, enough water to cover…let it go until you have a thick paste.  Mix that in wet clay for a poultice.  That should draw out the infection.”

“On it, mate,” said George.  He and Fred went to the cupboards.  George started shifting about the tiny jars of potions and herbs, handing some to Fred while Fred set the water to boil.  

Harry looked at Hermione.  She raised her eyebrows at him.  They had watched Ron struggle for years in potions, barely better than Neville.  To hear him now discussing poultices, roots and dragon’s blood with authority was a bit was surreal.

“I take it Gerard knew something about potions,” Hermione murmured as she handed Harry a teacup and saucer.

“I think he could cook, too,” Harry whispered back, remembering the cake Ron had helped his mother bake.

“Same general principal,” said Hermione.  She reached over Bill’s shoulder to put a cup and saucer in front of him.  

“Bit more complicated,” said Bill watching Ron.

Hermione went to the far end of the table.  She sat, but couldn’t keep herself from leaning forward.  Her knee jiggled with excitement.  Dean sat next to Hermione.  Charlie and Mr. Weasley were standing behind Ron; Bill and Harry were on the opposite side of the table.  Mrs. Weasley sat at the head of the table.

Mr. Weasley sat down next to Ron.  “Son,” he said.  “Can you just give us a general idea of what’s going on?  Your mother and I know, knew, Gerard Flint…”

“I know you did,” said Ron, his voice bitter.  He had his head in one hand and his eyes downcast.  He seemed to be addressing the tablecloth.

“Fine,” said Mr. Weasley calmly.  “Go on.”

“Right,” said Ron.  He lifted his head and looked at Harry.  Harry nodded, trying to look encouraging.  Ron gave him a tight smile.

“Go on, mate,” said Harry.

“Right.” Ron looked resigned.  “Here goes.”  He took a deep breath and said, “I don’t remember the whole of what happened in the Department of Mysteries…not summoning the brain or getting hit by the hex that made me slobber blood and act like a berk.  I do remember running with Ginny and Luna, after that, it’s all fuzzy.  I woke up in the Infirmary and thought I’d had a really crazy dream.  But the skin on my arms and chest was burning and Hermione was there too.

Harry glanced down at Hermione.  She was squirming in her seat, looking like she really wanted to say something.

“Madam Pomfrey and Hermione told me what happened,” said Ron.  “And to tell you the truth, I had a hard time believing it.  But the thing was, I kept having these weird thoughts in my head.  Like when Pomfrey would rub that Doctor Ubbly stuff on me, I’d suddenly realize I knew everything that was in the potion.  I could’ve recited the ingredients—horshound, rue, oil of rosemary, ground bezoar and so on.  And every time my forearm burned, I’d glance down.  It took me a while to realize I was looking for something—a Dark Mark.”

Harry felt his heart go icy.  Beside him, Bill drew in a breath and stirred.  

“Why would you look for a Dark Mark, Ron?” asked Ginny, her voice a little shrill.

“Was it because Gerard had one?” Hermione asked.  She was bouncing in her seat like she did in class, stopping short (and Harry was glad) of raising her hand.

Ron nodded.  “It was like I remembered having a Dark Mark, when of course I never did.  It took me ages to figure it out—it wasn’t my memory…it was someone else’s memories.”  Ron turned to look at Harry.  “What you told me, Harry--it looked like the brain was wrapping tentacles around me?”

Harry nodded.

“Pomfrey called the tentacles ‘thoughts,” Ron said.  “But to me they seemed more like memories.  Memories of a tossbag Death Eater named Gerard Flint…”  He didn’t seem to want to go on.

“Were they powerful memories, son?” Arthur Weasley asked softly.

“Yes,” Ron whispered.  He kept his head down so his fringe hung in front of his eyes.  

“And they were terrible memories, too.”  Mr. Weasley said gently.

“Made me sick,” said Ron, his head still down.  “Lot of ruddy Death Eaters up to ruddy Death Eater tricks…murder, torture, the lot…the memories came on worse after I got home.”  He gave a kind of desperate laugh.  “I remembered killing people, with the killing curse and with potions.  Maybe those aren’t my memories, but they sure as hell feel like my memories…they’re in here,” he tapped his temple with one finger.  “I can remember how to make a potion, as clear and tasteless as water…but if I put it in your tea, the friggin’ skin would boil right off your bones.  I can remember what it feels like to cast the killing curse.  You remember, Harry,” he glanced up at Harry, “what Crouch told us…that the killing curse needs a powerful bit of magic behind it?”  Harry nodded.  “Well, I remember exactly how to get to that magic, Harry…you don’t need to hate someone to cast the killing curse, you just have to feel something powerful…you can easily,” Ron looked down at the table again and his voice fell to a whisper, “cast the killing curse on someone you love.”

“Ron,” Mr. Weasley said.  “Gerard Flint has been dead for over twenty years now.  I take it the memories you’ve seen include quite a lot from the first war with You-Know-Who.”

Ron nodded.  “Bastard was You-Know-Who’s main Potion Master.  I don’t want to get into everything I’ve seen thanks to Flint,” he said, his voice shaky.  “It’s bad business, Gerard he didn’t give a rat’s arse who he killed as long as he was following orders.  He liked following You-Know-Who’s orders, Gerard did.  He thought You-Know-Who was the bloody bees knees, all right,” he went on angrily.  “There was only one time, he didn’t follow precise orders…and it got him killed.”

“How was he killed, Ron?” said Hermione from her end of the table.  Her face had a look of great excitement.  

“Avada Kedevra,” said Ron, still gazing at the table cloth.  “How do you like that?  I can remember what it feels like to receive the killing curse.  Gerard’s last memory…it’s not pleasant…it’s like a white-hot arrow to the—oh shit!” Ron looked up, stricken, at Harry.  “Harry, I’m sorry.  I’m a fuckin’ idiot.”

Hermione let out a dismayed squeak.  

Harry found he couldn’t speak.  His insides felt icy cold and he was trembling.  Under the table, Bill took his hand.

“Shit, Harry,” Ron said desperately.  “If it’s any consolation, it’s over really quick.  A green flash and a sharp jolt…then it’s…over…fuck…”  The redhead put his head back in his hands.

“Over quick,” Harry murmured, staring at Ron’s bent head.  Bill squeezed his hand.  In Harry’s memories, his mother screamed and screamed.  It didn’t seem to him like she was dying quick.  

“Ron,” Mrs. Weasley said suddenly.  “Gerard died of the killing curse…”

Ron’s head came up.  He looked his mother flat in the eye.  “That’s right,” he said in a soft cold voice.

“Well,” said Mrs. Weasley.  Her voice sounded odd and there was something defiant in her eyes.  “Did you see who killed him?”

“Of course, I did, Mum.” Ron’s voice was soft and level.  “You did, Mum.  You killed Gerard.”  



	15. Chapter 15

  
Author's notes:

This is a serial, updated about once a week...just a friendly heads-up for people who prefer to read finished pieces.

Betaed by [Brumeux77](http://astele.co.uk/TheQuidditchPitch/Chapter/Details/viewuser.php?uid=1234)

* * *

A stunned silence fell in the kitchen.

Harry heard the dripping of water somewhere.  He felt Bill sitting rigidly beside him and saw the last sunlight of the day coming in through the window above the sink, lighting a patch of dust motes that seemed to drift upwards, like upside-down snowflakes.  For a moment, it seemed the entire world had turned upside-down.  His mother had taken a white-hot arrow and died quickly.  Ron’s mother had killed someone.  Green light, white-hot arrow, jolt, over quick.  Ron had said so.  The water dripped.  No one moved.  Harry wondered if he were even breathing.

Finally Charlie cleared his throat and spoke.  “What did you say, Ronnie?” he asked.  “Mum killed someone?”

Ron had buried his head in his arms again.  Harry saw him nod.

“Mum?” said Ginny softly.  “Is he right?  Did you Avada Kedavra someone?

“I killed Gerard Flint,” said Mrs. Weasley flatly.  “I used the killing curse.  Easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

The silence fell again.  Harry shook his head to clear it.  He felt Bill’s hand touch his back, move in gentle circles.

Suddenly Fred burst out, “You killed a bloody Death Eater, Mum?  That’s bril!  You-Know-Who’s head poisoner.  I say good riddance, good show, Mum.”

“Ron,” said Charlie.  He had a hard edge in his voice.  “Don’t tell me you’ve had this family going spare all summer just because Mum killed a Death Eater—”

“Don’t be stupid, Charlie,” Bill broke in.  He shot a dark look at Charlie.  “There’s obviously more to this than Mum killing Gerard.”  He reached across the table and laid his hand on Ron’s bent head.  “You heard the kid.  He’s telling us he’s seen Death Eaters at work…killing and worse…bad enough, all right?  But Ron…”  Bill’s voice softened as he rubbed Ron’s head gently.  “There’s something more, isn’t there?”

“Yah,” Ron’s muffled voice came out of the cradle of his arms.  “S’more.”

Harry looked around the table.  He saw Mr. and Mrs. Weasley exchange glances.  Mr. Weasley looked uneasy, Mrs. Weasley, defiant, downright hostile.  At the end of the table, Hermione reached nervously for hair that wasn’t there anymore.  She looked worried and thoughtful.  

Mr. Weasley put his hands on Ron’s shoulders.  “It’s okay, son,” he said, squeezing the one good shoulder gently.  “Go ahead and say it.  Your mother and I can explain everything that happened with Gerard.”

Ron kept his head down, but he shook it vehemently.     

“Go on, Ronnie,” Bill said, pulling gently on his brother’s hair.  “Out with it.  Dad’s saying they can explain.”

Ron’s head came up.  Harry was shocked at the look on his friend’s face—his eyes were haunted, his face unspeakably sad.  But the set to his mouth was angry and his fingers, clutching his father’s robes, were white to the knuckles.  He seemed about to speak, but then he shook his head again.

“Oh, quit fannying around, Ron!” Bill burst out, his voice suddenly angry.  “Just say it!”  

Ron threw up his hands.  “Fine, fine, I’ll talk!” he said hoarsely.  “But you’re not going to like it.  She—” he jabbed an accusing finger at Mrs. Weasley—“She was meeting him in secret!  And they weren’t just trading recipes.  Okay?  Everybody got it?”   He suddenly thumped his fist against the table.  “Explain that to me, Dad!”

“All right, son,” Mr. Weasley said calmly.  His hand was kneading Ron’s shoulder, trying to quiet him.  “I…we can explain—”

George broke in.  “Meeting in secret?” he cried.  “What are you on about, Ron?”

“He’s got it wrong hasn’t he, Mum?” Fred asked, looking at Mrs. Weasley.

Ron leapt to his feet.  “I don’t have it wrong,” he shouted, his face red.  “Do I, Mum?  She…lemme go, Dad”—he shook off his father’s placating hands—“She was meeting Gerard in secret, in the barn of all the ruddy places.  In the company,” he added, sneering angrily, “of two little redheaded kids.  Isn’t that right, Mum?”

“That’s right, Ron,” said Mrs. Weasley, coldly.  “I met Gerard in the barn, because we lived in the barn in those days.  This house was a pile of sticks, about to collapse at any moment.  And,” she added, her voice taking on sudden heat, “don’t you ever point your finger at me again, young man—I had my two children with me to protect them.  What am I supposed to do, leave a baby and a two-year-old alone?”

“HE WAS A FREAKIN’ DEATH EATER, MUM,” Ron yelled.  “Funny way to protect your kids.”  His voice turned ugly, “Meet nice Mr. Flint, boys, he’ll be staying for tea and if you’re good, maybe he won’t boil the skin off your bones…”  

“I WAS WORKING FOR THE ORDER,” shouted Mrs. Weasley.  She was on her feet now, livid and leaning over the table toward Ron. “I WAS PART OF THE RESISTANCE, FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE!”

“NICE TRY, MUM!” Ron roared back.  He slapped both hands on the table and leaned toward his mother.  Their faces were inches from apart.  “You weren’t in the Order the first time around.  I heard Remus say so!”

“Remus didn’t know, boy!” Mrs. Weasely yelled, her face flushing scarlet.  “I was undercover.”

“Undercover!” sneered Ron.  He thumped the table again, making a teacup bounce from its saucer.  “That’s a good one, Mum.  I’ll try that next time I don’t feel like going to class.  Sorry, Professor, I was working undercover.”

“RON!” shouted Hermione, appalled.  Harry glanced down the length of the table.  Hermione’s fists were clenched at her side.  She was glaring angrily at Ron.  Beside her, Dean’s face was composed.  He seemed to be watching Ginny carefully.  Harry himself felt strangely detached.  He looked at the kitchen window.  It was filled with a hot red glow, the last moments of a fiery sunset.  Green is such a cold color, he thought.

Charlie gave Ron a smart cuff on the back of the head.  “Don’t be a prat,” he said roughly.

“Yeah,” said Fred.  “You’re way out of line, brother.”

“Oh, that’s bloody rich,” Ron spat, “coming from you.”

“ENOUGH!” shouted Mr. Weasley.  He so rarely raised his voice that everyone was startled into silence.  

Harry looked at Ron.  The redhead had his hands flat on the table, leaning on them for support.  His breathing was ragged and he was shaking with fury.  His head came up suddenly, and his eyes were wild.  

He’s going to run, thought Harry, numbly.

Mr. Weasley obviously had the same idea.  He caught Ron in his arms just as the boy spun away from the table.  “No!” said Mr. Weasley, holding his struggling son around the waist.  “You’re not leaving!  Not until we’re done here!”

“I am done!  I am done!” shouted Ron desperately.  His face was white and panicked.  “Your wife was entertaining Death Eaters in the barn, Dad!  Don’t make me say any more!”  He twisted in his father’s arms, trying to get free.  

“Dammit, Ron!” said Mr. Weasley sharply.  “Stop fighting me.  You don’t have to say any more…you just have to listen—”

“Dad!” wailed Ron, struggling harder.  “I don’t want to hear this…I’ve seen it…I’ve had enough…just let me go.  Please!”  

“Ron!”  Mr. Weasley hauled his son roughly around by the shoulders.  “Stop this this minute and look at me!”  He shook Ron hard and then pulled him to his chest, hugging him tightly.  

For a moment, Ron pushed against his father’s chest, his back arching and his neck twisting as he fought to get away.  Then suddenly he folded, as if a great pain were bending him double.  He caught handfuls of his father’s shirt.  Mr. Weasely stumbled, nearly losing his balance.

“Ron.”  Mr. Weasley, slightly breathless from the struggle, pulled his son up.  “There’s more to this story than you know.  You have to give us a chance to explain.”  He gave Ron another slight shake.  “Do you understand?”  

Ron nodded into his father’s chest.  He had lost the robe in his struggle; it was tangled between him and Mr. Weasley.  Charlie’s shirt hung loosely from his shoulders and Harry could see a number of his wounds had opened, oozing a thick black pus.  There were dots and smears of blood and pus on Mr. Weasley’s white shirt, too.    

Mr. Weasley looks a bit mussed, Harry thought, both surprised and appalled at the contents of his own head.  Does he know he’s lost a button? I watched it ping off and sail over Bill’s head.  I could have put my hand up and caught it like a Snitch.  And look at his shirt, all untucked, showing patches of white and slightly loose skin…freckles.  Harry felt strange, as though he were standing behind himself, watching another Harry watch Mr. Weasley holding his angry, grieving child.

Charlie stepped forward and gently freed Mr. Weasley’s cloak.  He draped it over Ron’s shoulders and Mr. Weasley pulled it protectively about his youngest son. Harry watched as the man dipped his head, spoke softly.

“…I promise you, we can survive this…” Mr. Weasley was saying.  His words floated to Harry, went into his ear and seemed to curl in his stomach.  “We can survive this, love…”  Mr. Weasley’s voice was low and fierce.  “…what we can’t survive is losing another child.  That’s what we’re afraid of, Ronnie…we’ve lost Percy and Robin…we lost…it feels like we’re dangerously close to losing you.”  

Harry watched Harry watching.  So this is family life, he thought.  This is what I would have had.  Could I ever have been so mad at Mum?  Would Dad have held me and tried to comfort me?  If Sirius had taken me in, would we have had blazing rows? Would he have pulled me back if I’d tried to run?  He looked at the window again.  The light was gone now and the glass was a blank black surface.  Green lights, white-hot arrows, Harry thought.  Veils that swallow up grown men.  Why don’t I feel real?

Mr. Weasley managed guide Ron back to his seat.  He held him there with a firm hand on his back.  Ron looked shell-shocked.  He slumped over the table, his eyes as blank as the window, clutching the robes tightly around him.  

“All right, Harry?” Bill’s soft voice was suddenly in his ear.  Harry looked at him, surprised.

Mr. Weasley cleared his throat.  He looked around, taking in every one in the room.  “This is Molly’s story,” he said.  “I’m going to let her tell it, if she will.”  He looked at his wife and she nodded stiffly.  “We never really meant to tell this story…well, not for a while anyway…but now…after what’s happened to Ron…well, it’s just best that you all know the truth.  Gerard Flint did a lot of damage to this family, Ron, even before you ran into him.  Gerard Flint,”  Mr. Weasley’s mouth twisted and he gave a bitter laugh.  “I know it’s not your fault, but Merlin’s beard, Ron, of all the brains to be attacked by…”

Harry felt giggles bubbling up in his throat as a line he’d heard over and over from the upstairs telly Dudley never turned off drifted across his mind.  Of all of the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she had to walk into mine.  He put his hands over his mouth, pressing back the jagged noises that were trying to force their way out.  What the bloody hell is wrong with me? he thought.

“Go on, Molly,” Mr. Weasley said to his wife.  She was sitting stiffly at her place at the head of the table, glaring balefully at all of them.  She looked like she could spit fire and for a moment, she reminded Harry of the Hungarian Horntail he had faced.  

“It’s time,” Mr. Weasley continued, “that everyone knew what you did for our family, Molly…and what it cost you.”

Mrs. Weasley’s face wobbled and fell.  She burst into tears.  

“Oh, Mum,” said Ginny.  Her voice was quiet and sad and Harry thought absently that she suddenly seemed all grown up.

“Mum, Mum.” George anxiously offered the calming draught.  Mrs. Weasley nearly snatched it from his hand, took another impressive pull.  She wiped up a dribbling bit with one knuckle.  Then she put her hand up gently to touch her silver locket.  It’s like she’s checking, Harry thought, to see if it’s still there.  

“What happened, Mum?” Ginny urged gently.  “You need to tell us and we need to hear.”

There was a short silence in the kitchen as all eyes turned to Mrs. Weasley.  She blew her nose and wiped her eyes, then patted George’s hand which was resting on her shoulder.  “Thank you dear,” she said to him.  

“Gin’s right, Mum,” George said softly.  “This sounds like something big.  Might as well burst the boil and have done with it.”

Charlie nodded.  “We all love you, Mum,” he said.  “You’ve done everything for us.  Just tell us…trust us.”

Mrs. Weasley glanced at Ron.  His eyes were unfocused and he seemed to be folding in on himself.  He had wound himself up in his father’s cloak, as though it were an Invisibility Cloak he could disappear under.

Mrs. Weasley sighed.  She pulled the chain away from her neck and slid the locket from side to side.  “Gerard liked me,” she finally said.  “Arthur and I knew him in school.  He was two years ahead of your father and four years ahead of me.  When I was sixteen, he claimed for me.”  She stopped suddenly and blushed deeply.  “I was as pretty as Ginny back then,” she said.  “Not tall, like Ginny, of course, but my face was very similar to hers and I was slender—before I had so many children.”  

That explains the face I saw in Ron’s head, thought Harry.  I thought it was Ginny, but it was Mrs. Weasley.

“I never claimed Gerard back.  I saw him some but I was really waiting for Arthur.  When Arthur claimed for me, I claimed him back,” went on Mrs. Weasley.  “I knew Arthur was the one for me, but it took him a little longer to figure it out.  Men!”  She snorted and rolled her eyes.  Mr. Weasley smiled sheepishly.  “Anyway,” went on Mrs. Weasley, “Gerard was angry, of course…he sent me a few letters saying Arthur would never amount to anything…but then he married a girl named Annabelle Snaggles, and that was that.  He stopped owling me.  Oh, every now and then, I’d hear on the grapevine that Gerard still liked me and that Annabelle never missed an opportunity to abuse me…but what did I care?  Arthur and I were busy with our own lives…we were having children.  When I heard that Gerard had taken the Dark Mark, I wasn’t too surprised…though I will tell you I was sorry I’d ever had so much as an ice cream with him…”  Mrs. Weasley paused, gently stroking her locket.  “Arthur and I had a flat in town,” she went on, “but we were looking for a bigger place.  We both wanted a lot of children…at least a Quidditch team, Arthur used to say…”

Mrs. Weasley’s eyes had been drifting over her children as she spoke and Harry had followed her gaze.  He’d seen her troubled eyes when she’d glanced at Ron, silent and staring glassy-eyed at the table.  He’d seen her eyes flick up as she glanced at George and Fred, at the stove, fiddling with the poultice they were making for Ron.  He’d watched her follow Ginny as she left Dean’s side and moved closer to the twins.  He’d known and he was sure Mrs. Weasley had known as well—Ginny was upset.  She had those familiar blotches in her cheeks.  When Harry’d seen Mrs. Weasley’s eye fall on Bill, he’d suddenly remembered that Bill had been his lover for the past two nights, though that seemed very far away at the moment.  Bill had his chin resting on his fist and his long hair brushed the table.  Finally, Harry had watched Mrs. Weasley look over Ron’s head at Charlie.  Charlie, Harry had decided was the only one in the room at ease.  He leaned comfortably back against the sink, his arms folded and one boot balanced on the other.  

“…anyway,” Mrs. Weasley’s voice went on, “we found the Burrow when Charlie was a baby and Bill was about two…It took every Knut of our saving to buy the land, the pond, the barn and paddock and a house fit only for the ghoul, which came with the property, incidentally.  Arthur spent the weekends shoring up the house, with a magic and a few hare-brained Muggle tricks,” she laughed, glancing up at her husband.  For a moment, Harry saw the shadow of a young and merry, unharassed and worry-free Molly Weasley.  “Any road, we lived in the barn while Arthur worked on the house….the war was on, but we foolishly thought we were out of it…”  Her voice trailed off and she touched her locket, frowning.

“Then one day, I was outside with the boys and Bill brought me something he’d picked up out of the grass…it was a mirror…it was wet with dew, I remember, and when I wiped it, Gerard’s face suddenly appeared in it.  He spoke to me, telling me he’d planted the mirror where I’d find it and that he needed to speak to me.  He was a Death Eater…I wanted nothing to do with him…so I broke the mirror.  When Arthur came home, I told him…he ground the mirror under his heel.  We swept up the broken bits and threw them into the pond.  Gerard next tried to contact me by owl.  Three or four times.  Finally I wrote Dumbledore and told him that a known Death Eater was trying to get in touch with me.  I truly was surprised at what happened next.”  

In the hush that fell over the kitchen, Harry heard the water drip drip again.  He found himself wondering if his mother had played with him in the grass.  Or if his father had wished for a Quidditch team of children.  Suddenly it seemed very important that he know.  I’ll ask Remus, he thought.

After a moment, Hermione spoke, “What happened next, Molly?”  Her voice was gentle and Harry felt vaguely glad that she was no longer bouncing as though she were in a particularly exciting lecture.  

“Dumbledore Apparated over to see me,” Mrs. Weasley answered.  “He wanted to know if Gerard’s messages seemed threatening in any way.  He knew Gerard had claimed for me and that I had chosen Arthur instead.  Dumbledore was afraid Gerard was going to use his position in You-Know-Who’s camp to make trouble for us.  I told the Headmaster that I thought Gerard might still be in love with me.  Then I got this bright idea…”  Mrs. Weasley looked rueful for a moment.  “I asked Dumbledore if I could meet with Gerard to see if I could get anything out of him.  The Headmaster said, ‘Absolutely not, a woman in your condition—’”

“Condition?” broke in Fred.

“Pregnant,” said Hermione while Ginny added, “like duh,” sotto voce.

Mrs. Weasley nodded.  “Yes, I was pregnant.  And at first Dumbledore wouldn’t hear of me meeting with Gerard.  Finally I talked him into it.  I said what if there were Aurors there?  What if one was at my side under an Invisibility Cloak, in case Gerard tried to hurt me or the children?  I think the only reason Dumbledore said yes was because he wondered if Gerard was looking for some way out of the Dark Side.  He wanted to make it possible for people to defect from You-Know-Who’s camp, because a lot of wizards and witches had been coerced in the first place.  He wanted to protect anyone who might want to defect.”

Ron made a choking noise in the back of his throat.  He clutched his father’s robes tighter, gazed woodenly at the tablecloth.  

“What is it, son?” Mr. Weasley asked, rubbing Ron’s back.

“Dumbledore was wrong,” Ron said.  He didn’t lift his head and his voice was deadly flat.  “Gerard thought You-Know-Who walked on water…that he was going to get rid of the wrong sorts of wizard…He might have had the hots for you, Mum…but there was no way he was going to leave You-Know-Who.”

“I’m going to have to disagree with you there, Ronald,” said Mrs. Weasley, a little curtly.  (Ron mumbled incoherently, shaking his head.)  “I think there was a possibility that Gerard wanted out.  We met three times, Aurors standing guard, some in the orchard and one beside me in an Invisibility Cloak.  Gerard asked me to leave Arthur…he said we could disappear, that he would even take Arthur’s children…that he had money and we could hide out in America—”

“Bollocks!” burst out Ron.  His head snapped up.  He glared at his mother, an odd glitter in his eyes.  “That’s crap!” he said.  “Gerard would have drowned ‘Arthur’s children’ in a sack.  I’ve got enough pictures in my head to know.   We’re talking about a bloke who’d visit his Slytherin mates to advise them to take the Dark Mark.  If they refused, he’d blow Medusa Moth wing acid in their faces and eat crumpets while their faces melted.  He’d cheerfully tell them he had the antidote if they wanted to change their minds.  Of course, they’d be horribly scarred but at least they would have their lives.  And the Notts…”  He pulled the cloak tighter about himself, his voice suddenly shaky. “You know they lost their eldest son?”  He looked up at his father.  

Mr. Weasley nodded.  “Of course, we do.  The boy would have been in his thirties by now.”  He was keeping his own voice even and calm, though Harry could see the tension in his face.

“That was Gerard,” said Ron.  “That potion I told you about, the tasteless, odorless one.  He gave it to Cecil Nott and made his parents watch their kid…” he stopped, looking like he was about to be sick.  “They took the Dark Mark that night.”

“Oh, Ron,” cried Mrs. Weasley, dismayed.  Her eyes had lost their hardness.

“Holy shit…holy tit-fuckin’ shit…”  Bill was raking his hands through his hair and swearing in a low voice.  Harry knew what he was thinking—for he was thinking it himself.  So, this is what Ron’s been seeing all summer…children boiling down to their bones in front of their parents…moth wing acid and melting faces…nothing wonder he’s going absolutely mental.  But why, Harry thought, why did he keep it all in so stubbornly?  Why has he so adamantly refused help?  He looked at across at Hermione.   Her face was white and she was trembling.

“Whether Gerard would have drowned Arthur’s children or not is academic, Ron,” said Mrs. Weasley softly.  Don’t you see…sure, I had tea with him in the barn and we talked as though we were friends…but I never would have left your father for the likes of him…I hated Gerard…intensely…I knew what he was…Can you really see me with a Death Eater?”  She laughed, but it was a harsh laugh.  Harry thought she sounded like she was coughing up a ball of phlegm.

“Actually, I can see it,” Ron said, in a low growl.  “That’s the bloody problem.”

“Hush, son,” said Mr. Weasley, his hands on Ron’s shoulders.  “Let her finish.”

Mrs. Weasley drew in a deep breath.  “The third time Gerard came back, he was acting a bit off.  He kept trying to say something but the words wouldn’t come.  And he stumbled oddly a few times.  He tripped as we were coming into the barn and I turned to ask him what was wrong.  I never got out a word because Gerard had his wand out and he was pointing it right at me.”

“Mum!” cried George.  “What happened to your bleeding Auror in the Invisibility Cloak?  He step out for tea?  How could he let Gerard draw a wand on you?”

“Ah, well,” said Mrs. Weasley, dryly, “that’s the trouble with having a guard in an Invisibility Cloak.  Unless you’re talking to them, you don’t know where they are.  A fellow named Damian Nutly was under the cloak that night and he had indeed stepped out, George…to relieve himself.  He was caught off guard when Gerard suddenly Apparated near the barn and tripped over the cloak hurrying to get to me.  And all in all, it happened rather fast…”

“What happened,” demanded Fred.  “And what kind of lousy Auror was this Nutly bloke?  I’ve never heard of him.”  

“Oh, he’s still around,” offered Mr. Weasley.  “I think in the secretarial pool at the Ministry.”

“What happened, Fred,” went on Mrs. Weasley, “was Gerard said something strange to me, he said…well,” she moved her hand as if to wipe away something.  “I don’t remember what he said…”

“I do,” said Ron in his flat dead voice.  His head was still down and his fringe hid his eyes, but his fingers curled and uncurled on the table.  “He said, ‘Fat red cow…hiding out in a barn…rather suitable Annabelle would say…Annabelle said you’d be popping out the traitor brats, and right she was….’”

“Bloody hell, Ron!” shouted George.  “What the f—where the bleeding hell did that come from?”  

Harry glanced at Bill.  Bill’s chin still rested on his fist and his eyes were closed as if he were in pain.

“Never mind, George,” said Mrs. Weasley, looking at Ron as though he were something rather repulsive she had stepped in.  “That’s exactly what Gerard said now that I remember.  He said that, then he Avada Kedavraed me—”

“He what?” said George, incredulously.

“He never did that, Mum,” said Fred, his face pale and frightened.  

“Actually, he did,” said Ron, lifting his head.  The odd glitter was back in his eyes.  “He cast the killing curse, hit Mum square in the belly.  Mum fell flat on her back, then bounced right back up.  She Avada Kedavraed Gerard right back and Bob’s your uncle, killed him dead.  I saw it, I see it, like fuck…” he scrubbed his hands across his face, “…what, every ten minutes or so?”

“Molly!”  Hermione’s voice was shrill.  “You can’t have taken a killing curse!  There’s only one person known to have survived a killing curse!”

All eyes turned to Harry.  Harry supposed he should be flushing like usual; instead he had to stop himself from giving a jaunty wave.  The strange detachment had him in its grip, though he felt a bubble of what he thought must be hysteria caught in his throat.  

“Was it because Gerard was under the Imperius?” asked Hermione, her brow furrowed.  “He was under the Imperius, wasn’t he, Molly?  That’s why he was acting funny.”  

“Yes, Hermione,” said Mrs. Weasley, smiling sadly.  “Annabelle had found Gerard out, that he was visiting me.  She put him under the Imperius and told him to kill me.  I’ve been told you have to really mean it when you use the killing curse.  I can’t vouch for that.” She sighed heavily, anxiously moving her locket around in her fingers.  “I’ve never been one to play around with the Unforgivables.  The one time I did use one, I meant it and then some.”

“Hold on,” said Hermione, her quick mind hitting on another possibility.  “Maybe it didn’t work because you were pregnant?”

Mrs. Weasley nodded.  “That’s one of the theories Arthur and I heard.  We talked to Albus, Poppy and the Healers at St. Mungo’s.  We talked to several Defense Against the Dark Arts experts.  The killing curse is really meant to do in one person.  It’s just possible that it won’t work on two people, even when they’re in one body.”

“There has to be some documentation,” murmured Hermione, reaching again for her hair.  Harry knew that if they’d been at school, she’d have spun on her heel and bolted for the library.

“Who were you pregnant with, Mum?” asked George.  “Was it Percy?”  He snorted.  “That would certainly explain a thing or two about his character.”

Next to Harry, Bill gave an impatient snort.  “Do the maths, George,” he said shortly.  “Mum said Charlie was a baby.  There’s nearly four years between Charlie and Percy.  Mum was obviously pregnant with a baby who didn’t live.”

“It that it, Mum?” asked Ginny.  She had moved next to Fred and wrapped her arm around his waist.  Harry noticed she was as tall as Fred now.  “Did you lose another baby?”

“Yes, Ginny,” said Mrs. Weasely, her voice and her eyes sad.  “We lost your brother, Artie.  He was nearly full term.  We knew I was carrying another boy.  We’d already named him Arthur.  Arthur Albus Weasley.”

“So the killing curse did work,” said Hermione softly, “just not on you…”

Harry glanced around the room.  He supposed another silence had fallen.  The Weasleys and Hermione were all motionless and Dean, as far as he could tell, hadn’t moved since the whole conversation had begun.  He supposed there was silence but he couldn’t really tell for sure because there was a loud ringing in his ears.  There was a tear on Mrs. Weasely’s face, but it just sat there, fat, wet and unmoving, so perhaps it was only that time had stopped for a moment.  What if Mum had been pregnant? he wondered.  Would things have been different?  And did Voldemort harbor a bit of a liking for Lily Evans?  After all he kept telling her to step aside.  Why did he bother arguing when it would have taken less time to kill her?  It doesn’t make sense, he thought, suddenly aware of something hot and angry and hurt inside, something with claws moving way down deep where he couldn’t quite get at it.  Why did Molly live? he thought, his eyes suddenly burning.  It doesn’t make sense…why did she live and Mum die…it doesn’t make any sense at all.  

There was a sudden movement on the other side of the table.  Harry jerked his head to see Ron rising slowly from the table.  “That’s a lovely story, Mum,” Ron said, his voice low and menacing.  “But why stop now?  You’re leaving out the good bits, don’t you think?”

“What are you talking about, Ron?”  Mr. Weasley reached out for Ron’s shoulders.  There was a look of alarm on the older man’s face.  

“I mean she didn’t tell the whole bloody story,” snapped Ron.  He wrenched himself away from his father and backed away from the table.  Still clutching the robe about him, he went to stand next to Charlie.

“I’ve told the whole thing, Ron,” said Mrs. Weasley, looking suddenly weary.  “What more do you want?”

“That’s your whole story?” said Ron, shaking his head in disbelief.  His voice rose.  “It’s a pretty crap sanitized version, I’d say!”  He stabbed himself in the temple with his finger.  “I got the whole thing up here, remember?”

Mrs. Weasley looked utterly bewildered.  “What in heaven’s name are you talking about Ron?”

“I’m talking about you and Gerard,” yelled Ron.  “The dirty parts.  The ones I’ve had to watch all bleeding summer.”

“Dirty parts?” said Mrs. Weasley in disbelief.  “Are you suggesting that I was intimate with Gerard Flint?”

“Yeah, I am,” said Ron, viciously, “though intimate is a rather pretty word, if you ask me.”

“Ron!” shouted Ginny.  She looked disgusted.  “Shut up!  You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Don’t I?” screamed Ron.  “What the fuck do you think has been rolling around in my head all summer?  Bloody pictures of Mum and Gerard Death-Eater Flint!  If I’d had my bastarding wand,” he said, nearly choking with rage, “I would have stuck it my ear and fried my own brain!”

“Ron,” said Mr. Weasley, softly.  He sounded as if he were talking to a dangerous and unpredictable animal.  “You got a few things backward, love.  Molly did nothing wrong.”

“You don’t know, do you Dad?”  Ron looked sickened.  “Mum didn’t share the naughty parts with you, did she?”

“Hold up, son,” Mr. Weasley started but Mrs. Weasley broke in.

“Arthur knows everything,” she shouted.  She looked like she’d been slapped.  “I’ve never kept anything from my husband in all my life!”

“YOU’RE LYING, MUM!” screamed Ron.  Suddenly everything he’d been holding back all summer broke loose with a vengeance.  Ugly words bubbled out of him unchecked.  “I saw you…I saw him,” he screamed, his face as dark red as Harry had ever seen it.  “Shagging like bunnies, you were….what you think has had me so sodding sick all summer…pictures in my head of you and Mr. Flint…”

“Shut up, Ron,” yelled Fred, furiously, “I’ll knock your lights out for you.”  Ginny, with her arms around Fred, held him back, but she seemed every bit as stunned and furious as her brother.  

“Do it, Fred,” hissed Ron nastily.  “Do me a favor and knock my lights out so I don’t have to see it any more.  You, Mum,” he whirled on his mother, “smiling, Gerard taking your robes off, your huge belly and tits out to here…”

All the Weasley were on their feet now, mouths hanging open too shock to respond.  Ron went on as though he couldn’t stop himself.

“What were you thinking, woman!” he snarled.  “You had kids and a husband to take care of…and you were arsing about with some sick fuck who killed people for fun!”

“I WAS NOT!”

SMACK!

Hermione had rounded the table and slapped Ron hard.  “Ronald Weasley,” she hissed, spitting with rage.  “You shut your mouth!”

Ron put his hand up to his cheek.  A scarlet mark was rising on his pale skin.  “What the fuck, Hermione!” he cried.

“I hit you,” Hermione said, her face twisted and mottled.  “To keep you from getting slapped by your own mother, you idiot!  How dare you talk to Molly like that!  She’s taken care of you from the minute you were born, fed you, loved you, waited on you hand and foot.  How dare you treat her like she’s some kind of tramp…just because another man wanted her, that doesn’t make her dirty!  You…you…”  Hermione could no longer contain her anger.  She slapped Ron hard again.

For a moment, Ron stood with his mouth hanging open.  His hands were balled into tight fists at his side.  His mouth suddenly shut with a snap and his eyes narrowed.  For a horrible moment, Harry was afraid he was going to hit Hermione back.  Instead, Ron whirled and belted Charlie who was standing next to him.

Charlie didn’t lose his footing, but he staggered heavily.  When he brought his head up, Harry could see his lip bleeding.  “Bugger!” he said.  “You little brat!”

“Fuck you,” Ron shouted back.  He flung himself at Charlie.

Charlie easily scooped Ron up and swung him over his shoulder.  “Mind his feet,” he called out as he strode to the kitchen door and kicked it open with one boot.  Then he unceremoniously tossed Ron into the darkened backyard and leapt out after him.

Harry could hear loud voices calling and the sound of shuffling feet, shouts of anger mingled with cries of dismay, but really it all seemed much too far away to concern him.  To his surprise, he felt himself rising to his feet.  I must be going somewhere, he thought, I wonder where.   He looked about for Bill, but Bill had moved to the back door where everyone else had congregated, watching whatever was going on in the backyard.  

Harry felt a great disinterest swirling about him, as cold as the hem of a dementor’s cloak. He was separating from everything around him.  I wonder, he thought, if I have just achieved some new level of Occlumency.  I feel like I finally have those impermeable walls, the ones I was looking for all summer.  But these thoughts belonged to another Harry, a Harry other than the one standing rather blankly in the Weasleys’ kitchen, as though he were nothing but a body.  Green flashes, one of the Harrys thought, white hot pain, fluttering veils gobbling up grown men.  Boys who die in an instant in Muggle graveyards and broken tanks spilling green liquid and tanks.  Remember, even the Death Eaters turned to look.  One of the Harrys felt a hot laugh scratching up from his stomach, up his throat toward the doors of his mouth.  Well, he thought, stupidly, if Ron ends up on the closed ward, maybe I can have the bed next to his.

Harry.  He heard a voice call.  Harry

Here, Mum, he almost answered.  But then he felt himself tilt and all the Harrys poured back into the body standing numbly in the kitchen.  The impact nearly took him to the floor.  

“Harry!”

Harry grabbed the table for support.  The next thing he knew, Hermione had him firmly by the elbow.  With her hand in the small of his back, she hustled him into the downstairs toilet and he folded neatly over it, vomiting out the contents of his stomach before sinking weakly to his knees.  As he choked and retched, some particularly nasty thing was working its way forward, pulling itself on claws that ripped and tore.  Why, he thought helplessly, why?  Why didn’t my mother use the killing curse?  



	16. Chapter 16

  
Author's notes:

This is a serial, updated about once a week...just a friendly heads-up for people who prefer to read finished pieces.

Betaed by [Brumeux77](http://astele.co.uk/TheQuidditchPitch/Chapter/Details/viewuser.php?uid=1234)

* * *

“Harry?”

“Harry?”

“Harry!”

I’m all right, Hermione, okay?  Gimme a mo’.  I’m in mid-spew here.

“Here, dear, budge over a bit…that’s it.  I’m afraid he’s had a bit of a shock, what with Ron’s description and all.”

Harry felt a cool cloth pressed to his forehead as he retched again.

“Oh, that’s just bloody lovely.  Do you know how shitty my job is?”

“Shut up, you beast, or I’ll have Arthur replace you.  You can rot in a junk heap for all I care.”

Harry coughed up more bile.  The cool cloth pressed itself against his cheeks, wiped his brow.  Do they really have to watch me do this? he thought.  The room was fuzzy.  Where are my glasses?

“And an Expelliarmus, I’d suspect…”

“Surely, she was disarmed.”

“Doubt he came alone.”

“Was there a Dark Mark, dear?”

“What?”  Harry sat up, spitting.  “What are you talking about?”  Hermione leaned in, settled his glasses back on his face.  She tucked the earpieces neatly in place.

“Harry,” she said, anxiously.  Her hands held each other, squeezing.  “You were asking why your mum didn’t use the killing curse.”

The cool cloth came again, wiped his mouth.  Molly Weasley sat on the floor next to Harry, patting him about the face with her cloth.  “I’m sure she would have used it in a heartbeat if she could have,” she said.  “But I’m quite sure she was disarmed, love.”

Oh, well, that would explain it.  Harry’s stomach convulsed hard; it felt like it was trying to touch his backbone.  Who knew it took so many muscles to heave?  He groaned over the toilet again, fluid spilling from his mouth, nose and eyes.

“Oh, lovely.  Do go on.  More.  More.  Don’t stop on my behalf.”

“Shut up you!”  Mrs. Weasley smacked the toilet hard.  “Sorry, Harry.  This ruddy toilet is just mean-spirited.  Fred and George have teased it so.  Hermione, dear, go fetch the calming draught.”

Harry wiped his wet eyes and looked at Mrs. Weasley.  She squatted next to him, her voluminous robes ballooning up to her neck.  Her head bobbed atop like a doll’s head.  It made Harry queasy just to look at her.  He hurt in the ribs, in the chest, back and shoulders.  And where had all his lovely detachment gone?

Hermione was back.  “Here, Molly,” she said, settling back down on the floor next to Harry.

Mrs. Weasley turned back to Harry.  “Harry,” she said, suddenly all business. “I’m going to do something a little unusual to you.  It’s something my mother taught me and it might help you feel better.  I want you to take a huge swallow of this calming draught, enough to make your head swim.  Then I’m going to hit you with the tiniest of Ennervation spells.  That should balance you out a bit.  The draught will relax you and the spell will keep you from going to sleep.  Unless you’d rather go to sleep, dear?”

“No ma’am.  I should be with Ron.”

“All right, love.”  

Harry thought he heard approval in Mrs. Weasley’s voice.  He tipped back the bottle, took a long pull of the draught.  Just as his head was growing muzzy, he felt the tip of Mrs. Weasley’s wand on his shoulder and a soft “Ennervate.”  Instantly, his head cleared and he felt himself again.       

“Thank you, Mrs. Weasley.  I’m all right now.”  Harry started to rise, but Mrs. Weasley caught him by the forearms.

“Harry,” she said fervently, pulling him in close to her large bosom.  “I want you to know that your mother did all she could.  If she could have stayed with you, she would have.  She would have felt she owed you that much, having brought you into this world.  And dear,”—suddenly she snatched at him, crushing him to her, her voice breaking—“you can’t possibly know how much she loved you.  You just can’t.  And you won’t, until you have children of your own.”

“Yes, ma’am.  Thank you.”  Harry had to resist the urge to push Mrs. Weasley away.  He realized she meant well, but he simply couldn’t sit on the floor another second.  “Thank you,” he said again.  “But I have to go now.”

“Of course you do, dear.”  Mrs. Weasley blew her nose loudly on something.  “You go on now.”

“Can I bloody flush now?”  Harry heard the toilet ask as he left the room.  “Or perhaps I should just thank the kind sir for the lovely bowl of waste?”  

Smack.  Mrs. Weasley’s hand hit the porcelain again.  “Belt up, you, or I’ll leave you like that all day.”

Harry joined Hermione who was standing next to Bill.  She was on her tip-toes, trying to see over the red heads of the Weasleys clustered around the back door.  “Where’s Ron?” Harry asked.

“Out back with Charlie,” answered Bill.  “They’re working things out.”

Harry stood on tip-toes too.  He could see some movement in the dark yard, heard the sound of blows being traded, Ron swearing.

“Won’t Charlie hurt him?”  Hermione sounded worried.

“Charlie?” said Bill.  “Nah.”

“But,” Hermione said.  Harry could almost hear her wringing her hands.  “There’s no way this can be a fair fight.  Charlie, he’s too big.  And Ron isn’t exactly top form these days.  This is just crazy.”

“Don’t worry, Hermione,” said Bill.  He had his arms folded, a grim smile on his face.  “Ron might be crazy, but he’s not stupid.  If you’re gonna swing on any one in this family, it might as well be Charlie.  In the first place, Ron knows Charlie can handle himself.  Charlie’ll rough him up a bit, sure—I suppose that’s what Ron’s after—but Charlie won’t really hurt him…I’m sure he forgave Ron ten seconds after he swung on him.  The rest of us—me, Fred, George, Ginny—we’d have gotten our backs up.”

Hermione blinked at Bill.  “Are you telling me Ron and Ginny have had fistfights?”

“Dead right, they have,” said Bill.

“Who wins?” Harry couldn’t help but ask.

“Ginny.  Ron pulls his punches.”

Suddenly a bright light flooded the backyard, throwing Charlie and Ron into sharp relief.

“Oh for crying out loud,” said Bill sourly.  “If this wasn’t already circus enough…now Fred and George want a bleeding sideshow.”

“Easy, Bill.”  Harry heard Arthur Weasley’s voice.  “The twins are just trying to lighten the mood.  And to tell you the truth, I don’t really want to lose sight of Ron right now.  I just don’t know what he might do.”

“Dad,” Bill sounded exasperated.  “He’s gone all summer without hurting anyone.  He’s not going to start now.”

“He’s hurt himself, son,” Mr. Weasley pointed out.  He gave Bill’s shoulder a squeeze but his eyes never left Ron.

Bill closed his eyes and swallowed.  Harry saw his Adam’s apple bob as if his throat were tight.  He slipped past Hermione to put an arm around the older wizard’s waist.  He was shocked when Bill turned and gave him a full body hug.

“All right, kiddo?” Bill asked softly, putting his mouth down next to Harry’s ear.  “That was a bloody awful scene.  I know you took it hard.”

Harry nodded and leaned into the hug.  He felt tears stinging his eyes.  

Bill held him tightly for a long moment.  “We’ll talk soon,” he promised before releasing Harry.

Harry wobbled when Bill let go.  He could still feel the older wizard’s mouth hot against his ear.  Hermione was next to him, tutting and clucking.  How had she missed it? Harry wondered.  Bill holding me so close…his hair falling all over me like a lover’s hair.  He watched her brown eyes slide up, tracking the source of the bright light, before flicking back to Ron and Charlie.  He wondered himself how Fred and George had produced the light.  It was bright yellow and erupted now and then with a shower of sparklers.  Harry shrugged.  Just another gizmo from their bottomless bag of tricks.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Fred’s voice suddenly rang out. “Welcome to the battle of the Gryffindor Prefects.”

“Oh for heavens’ sake,” Hermione hissed.

“In this corner, well it’s not really a corner, is it?  We have Charlie “Dragonman” Weasley—oy, Charlie, don’t look at me—OUCH—see, you let him land one—Charlie Weasley, standing a muscular five feet, ten inches—oh, nice duck there, Ron—Charlie weighs, oh, around twelve and a half stone, bloody heavy—chest circumference of—erm, how big would you put Charlie’s chest, George?”

“I’d have to say he fills up his Double D’s.”

“Right,” said Fred.  “Double D’s for Charlie—facing off against the Dragonman is our young challenger, the hot-headed Ronald “Ronniekins” Weasley—ah, good one Charlie, a nice smack upside the head for Ron—all right, our challenger, Ron Weasley, stands about six feet, one or two inches—how tall is the kid these days, George?”

“Couldn’t say,” said George.  “He still looks like a punk to me.”

“Right you are, brother, a punk indeed—AND RON CONNECTS AGAIN—ooh, get him, Charlie—somewhere in the neighborhood of 6 feet, our Ron, weighing perhaps eleven, eleven and a half stone—back luck, Ron, down you go—jump on him, Charlie—DON’T BLOODY HELP HIM UP!—OW—told ya, Chuck—got you in the jaw, didn’t he?”

Harry watched the battle with fascination.  Ron connected with the right side of Charlie’s face, snapping the older wizard’s head around.  Charlie shook off the punch and shouldered Ron in the midriff.  Ron grunted and staggered back.  He started to swing at Charlie again but Charlie bent lower, wrapped his big hands around Ron’s calves and jerked Ron’s legs went out from under him.

“AND OOOFF!” shouted Fred. “Ron is down hard—that was bloody rough—”

“I’VE HAD ABOUT ENOUGH OF THIS LANGUAGE!”

“Sorry, Mum.”

“ALL SUMMER LONG, THE B-WORD, THE F-WORD!  THIS FAMILY IS NOT GOING ALL TO POT, NOT IF I HAVE MY SAY!”

“Some nice chatter from the crowd tonight, folks—and Ron is down again—and he’s up—got a bit of bounce in him, that one—he swings with his left—no, that was a feint…he’s back with a right roundhouse—Charlie easily blocks it with a forearm…like swatting gnats, huh Charlie?  A backhand from Chuck and Ron staggers…he lunges…he’s going down again, but this time, he’s taking Charlie with him.”

Harry watched the two brothers roll about on the grass.  He thought Ron was putting up a pretty fair fight considering Charlie’s bigger size.  He saw Charlie draw his arm back and winced.  Ron’s going to lose a few teeth, he thought.  But when Charlie struck Ron’s cheek, Harry saw the older wizard was using an open hand, not a fist.  Bill’s right, he thought.  Charlie’s going out of his way not to hurt Ron.  Or maybe hurt him just enough.  

“I have to say, folks,” announced Fred, “that the battle of the Gryffindor Prefects is a little one-sided—we now have Ron on the ground with Charlie sitting on him—but Ronniekins is not giving up, he’s twisting, trying to unseat the massive Dragonman—OH BAD FORM, RON!—no hair-pulling, that’s for girls—anyway, not much suspense in the battle of the Prefects—if Percy were here, we could have a double bill, the Gryffindor Prefects and the Gryffindor Head Boys—what do you think, George?”

“I think it’s a jolly good idea, Fred,” said George.  “Head Boy Bill against Big Head Boy Percy.  Percy could run and we could all take bets on how long it would take Bill to catch him and kill him.  How long would you say, Bill?”

“Oh, about three minutes,” called Bill.

“You sound a little confident, Bill,” said George.  “Percy is a bloody fast bugger.”

“GEORGE!”

“Sorry, Mum.”

“I’m fast too, little brother,” said Bill, shrugging.  “You want to find out how fast, start running…we’ll see how long it takes me to catch you.”

“Thanks, Bill,” said George backing up a step.  “I appreciate it, honestly, I do…but I am going to have to pass.  My bloody headaches, you know.”

“My bloody arse,” grumbled Bill.

“Sorry, folks,” Fred’s voice boomed out again.  “I’m afraid this fight might be over—The Dragonman’s had our Ronnie down for a good minute now—it’s just a matter of time—but look at Ron, he’s not giving up—there’s a smack for your trouble, Ron.”

Harry craned his neck for a better view of the brothers.  Ron was on his back, Charlie had him pinned and every time Ron tried to take a swing, Charlie blocked it and responded with an open-handed slap.  Then finally having enough, Charlie leaned down, grabbed Ron by the wrists and pinned him, his big forearms firmly upon Ron’s leaner ones.

It was another long moment before Ron stopped struggling.  Then, for a moment, all was still in the backyard.

Harry was suddenly aware of the noise in the kitchen.  Ginny was watching out the window and Dean was watching her.  Ginny was talking and gesturing with her hands.  Her long braid slapped against her back.  Mrs. Weasley was grumbling and snorting as she moved about the kitchen, ordering the dishes to wash themselves, setting the broom to sweep the floor.

“Whole house gone all to pot,” Harry heard her mutter as she flicked her wand here and there.  “‘Bleeding this’ and ‘bloody that,’ ‘bugger here’ and ‘bugger there.’”  The ruddy f-word right to my face.”  She stabbed her wand at the sink and soap bubbles boiled up until they towered over her head.  “A spot of trouble in the house this summer, and suddenly we’re all on a downward slide…no, sir, not if I have my say!”

“Molly.”  Mr. Weasley approached his wife.  “The boys are done.  Give them a moment to cool off.  You go take a minute for yourself.  I’ll clean up.”

“Arthur!” Mrs. Weasley wheeled on him as though the whole thing were his fault.  “Those things he said!”

“The things he said were wrong, Molly,” said Mr. Weasley, putting his arms around his wife.  “You don’t need to tell me that…I’d know, wouldn’t I?”

Mrs. Weasley nodded into Mr. Weasley’s shoulder.  Harry felt like an intruder for watching, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

“We’ll set Ron straight, love…now, go on.  Take care of yourself for a spell.”

Mrs. Weasley nodded.  She wiped her hands on a dishtowel, then headed for the stairs.  As she went up, she seemed to be carrying a heavy load on her shoulders.

“Turn off the damn light, George.”

Harry turned at the sound of Bill’s terse voice.  He turned to see the tall redhead shouldering past his brother on his way out into the back yard.

The light went out immediately and for a moment Harry was blind.  Then he began to pick out the shapes of Bill, Charlie and Ron on the lawn.  They were lit by the moon, which had only waned one day from full.  Bill and Charlie were pulling Ron to his feet.  Harry could see Charlie’s stocky form, holding Ron’s elongated one around the waist.  Then Bill leaned forward, wrapped a long arm around Charlie’s neck and pulled the other two toward him.  In the dark, the brothers were just a dark humped shape.  Bill and Charlie had their heads together, talking and Ron was lost somewhere in their shadow.  After a moment, Charlie pulled away and started walking back toward the house.

Harry stepped out into the backyard and met Charlie halfway across the lawn.  “Urm, Charlie,” he said.

“Don’t worry, Harry,” said Charlie, throwing an arm over Harry’s shoulder and leading him over to the garden bench.  “Ron’s fine.”

Harry sat down on the bench next to Charlie, watching as Bill and Ron, after a moment of discussion, turned and walked the other way.  In a moment, the brothers had disappeared into the dark and among the apple trees.

Harry sat with his head hanging, his feet kicking the grass under the bench, and thinking that it had only been, what, last night, that he’d sat here with Bill and started down a path he’d never expected to be on.

“They’ll be back soon,” Charlie said comfortingly.  “Both of them.”

Suddenly a hand landed on Harry’s shoulder and gripped tight.  Harry jumped and nearly squealed.

“Harry!” Hermione’s voice was high and excited.  “I have an idea!”

“What is it?” asked Harry, half-rising.

But Hermione was already running back to the house.  “I need to talk to Molly and Arthur first,” she called.

Harry sighed and slumped back down to the bench.  He looked at Charlie and shook his head.  “I hate it when she does that,” he said.  



	17. Chapter 17

  
Author's notes:

This is a serial, updated about once a week...just a friendly heads-up for people who prefer to read finished pieces.

Betaed by [Brumeux77](http://astele.co.uk/TheQuidditchPitch/Chapter/Details/viewuser.php?uid=1234)

* * *

Harry sat silently next to Charlie on the garden bench, wondering where Bill and Ron had gone in the dark.

“Fun’s over,” he heard Fred say somewhere behind him. “Maybe we should check on that poultice, right?”

“Right.” George’s voice was low, but it carried clearly to Harry’s ears. “Opened a few of those wounds, didn’t he? Serves him right for taking on Charlie.”

“Who else was he going to hit? Hermione? You? Me?”

“Nah, he made the right choice. Pity Perce wasn’t here, though.”

On the bench next to Harry, Charlie gave a low laugh.

Harry turned to look at the older wizard. Charlie had a bloody nose and a swollen lip, some scratch marks on his neck. He didn’t seem particularly bothered. His body and face were both relaxed. Harry was feeling so wound up again, he wondered if he should go for another calming draught.

“None of this bothers you?” he asked Charlie. “Ron jumping you? The things he said?”

“Not really,” said Charlie, stretching. “It’s a bit of a relief, honestly. We finally have it out, what’s bothering Ron. And I was the lucky one who got to smack him around when everyone else wanted to…aw, Harry, don’t look at me that way.”

Harry wondered what kind of look was on his face. “What way?” he asked.

“You’re furrowing your brow,” said Charlie. “You’re chewing on your lower lip.” He put a large hand on top of Harry’s head and messed up his hair. “Look, Ron’ll be all right now, Hermione’s got an idea…that’s got to be reassuring, right?”

“Well,” said Harry, thinking. “She’s had some ideas that were dead on. But she’s also had some stinkers.”

“Right more often than not?” Charlie grinned. Harry found the sight a little disturbing considering Charlie’s bloody mouth.

“Yeah,” sighed Harry. “I’m pretty sure Hermione is the smartest person in the world.”

“I say, Harry.” Charlie’s tone was suddenly more serious. “You know what Ron said about Mum and Flint shagging…that’s wrong, right?”

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it. It didn’t seem smart to chat with a mate about whom his mum might have shagged. Especially a mate the size of Charlie.

Charlie didn’t mind his silence. “In the first place,” he said, “she was too busy shagging Dad, for fuck’s sake. I mean, when would she have had the time to fit Flint in? Seven kids and those were just the ones who lived. I’m fairly sure there were some miscarriages between me and Percy. In the second place, what do you know about claiming?”

“Nothing,” said Harry. “I think Hermione was going to fill me in, but things just happened too fast.”

“Oy!”

Harry nearly fell off the bench, he was so startled by George’s voice.

“Twitchy, aren’t you?” said George, grinning. He turned to Charlie and handed him a wet flannel. “Do something about your face, Chuck. It’s not pretty. And here’s your wand. If you’re going to be sitting out here in the dark with Harry, you want your weapon, right?”

“I’m not going to be attacking him,” said Harry, confused.

“Good for you,” said George, patting Harry’s head. “He’s had enough for tonight. Maybe you can go for Bill, when he comes back.” He was walking toward the house as he spoke. The last few words were fairly shouted.

Harry was hot with embarrassment. Does George know something? he thought. Was it possible that everyone in the Weasley household already knew what he’d been up to with Bill?

Charlie answered his question. “He doesn’t know,” the older wizard said bluntly.

Now Harry felt like sinking into the earth. “And you do?” he ventured.

“I saw some stuff,” admitted Charlie. “Out the window, when I was watching over Ron. Do you know what you’re up to, Harry?”

“I just wanted…” Harry stumbled for words. “Urm, I just wanted…to, you know...”

“And Bill did too, apparently.”

Harry wished Charlie would stop being so direct. “Urm, I guess…he seemed to,” he said.

“That’s great,” said Charlie, brightly. “So why hide it? If you fancy Bill and he fancies you, why not share the good news with the family?”

“Because,” said Harry slowly, cottoning on. “The family seems to think I belong to Ron.”

“Well, if you don’t belong to Ron, Harry,” said Charlie, grinning again. In the moonlight his bloody teeth were a ghastly black. “Here’s your chance to set everyone straight. What do you say, Harry?”

“What the hell are you playing at?” said Harry, finally getting angry. “What’s it to you anyway?”

“All right, Harry,” said Charlie, holding up his hands. He was still smiling widely. “I get it, none of my business. Anyway, I was going to tell you about—”

“Claiming,” Harry finished for him, scowling at the older man in the dark.

“Right,” said Charlie not at all bothered by Harry’s tone. He scrubbed at his face with the flannel George had given him. He managed to remove some of the blood and smear the rest. “Here’s a short history of claiming—”

“Hermione said it was a Pureblood thing,” Harry interrupted him.

“It is,” said Charlie. “Which might explain why you haven’t heard much about it. You’d probably hear a bit more about in Slytherin common room.”

“Is this one of those things that girls talk about more than boys?” asked Harry.

“Absobloodylutely,” said Charlie, beaming. He seemed pleased that Harry was so clever. “Claiming is an old Pureblood tradition, you don’t see it much anymore. Pureblood marriages used to be arranged by contract. If you were a Pureblood, you promised your Pureblood son or daughter to another Pureblood’s son or daughter, and a marriage contract was drawn up. It was a way of marrying houses and keeping Pureblood pure. If you think there’s trouble now between Purebloods, mixed bloods and the Muggle-born…well, back then, they were absolutely mental over it. If your Pureblood child married outside of the circle, that was grounds for disinheritance. Haven’t you heard any of this in your History of Magic class?”

“I stopped listening after the Goblin invasion,” Harry answered more or less honestly.

“Right,” said Charlie, “very understandable. Anyway, there was an alternative to contractual marriage—”

“Claiming,” said Harry again.

“Top marks for you,” said Charlie, throwing an arm around Harry and nearly knocking him to the dirt. “Say you were a Pureblood,” Charlie went on, “and your parents had contracted a marriage for you but you fell in love with someone else. You could make a claim for that person. If your loved one claimed you back, then you have a claiming and can have a claiming ceremony performed. Claims are very strong bonds; they are expected to last a lifetime. In fact a mutual claim overrides a marriage contract arranged by parents, which,” Charlie shrugged and laughed, “also led to a lot of disowned Pureblood children.”

“Is claiming really different from marriage?” Harry wanted to know.

“Sure,” said Charlie. “Marriage is marriage but claiming is magic. The desire to claim and be claimed has to be felt strongly by both parties, otherwise the magic doesn’t work. Sure, you can kidnap someone, force them to perform a claiming ceremony with you, but it won’t work unless there is reciprocal love. You can marry someone without loving them, but you can’t have a successful claiming unless you are in love and are loved back.

“So why haven’t I heard more about this,” demanded Harry. “There are plenty of Pureblood girls in Gryffindor, why aren’t they squealing over who claimed whom?

“Because, it’s practically obsolete,” answered Charlie. “When parents began to allow children to choose their own partners, it fell out of practice. It’s still practiced here and there and in some families you don’t marry without a claiming. My mother’s family happens to be one of those families. Flint would have known that, that’s why he claimed for my mother.”

“Still seems like I should have heard about it,” muttered Harry. Lavender and Parvati were the giggliest girls he knew. He racked his brain for any memory of them twittering about claims.

“Well,” said Charlie, “to be honest, claiming doesn’t happen very often. How often does truly felt reciprocal love happen? I know I been in love once or twice but the person I loved wasn’t in love with me. I’ve had an idiot or two fall in love with me, believe it or not.” Charlie nudged Harry and winked. “But I wasn’t in love with any of them.”

“So two people have to be in love with each other in order for claiming to work,” said Harry.

“Yup,” said Charlie. “In love. You can’t just really respect someone and love them as a friend and expect your claim to work. The magic just won’t happen. To be honest, I wouldn’t touch a claiming with a ten-foot pole. When they go wrong, claims can mess with your personal magic. Mum, of course, wouldn’t have had it any other way. The Prewetts—you couldn’t find a bigger pack of romantics. Hearts, flowers, true love, bah!” Charlie laughed, his big voice booming out into the darkness. “Hell, I don’t know if I even believe that shit…though,” he added thoughtfully, “Mum and Dad do give one pause.”

“So what does this have to do with your mum and Gerard?” said Harry. He kicked his feet against the grass. He was growing restless in the garden with Charlie. He was having to restrain himself to keeping from going after Bill and Ron.

“It’s pretty simple, really,” said Charlie. He folded his arms and looked out into the dark. “Mum couldn’t have been with Flint. She couldn’t have even wanted to be with Flint. It would have completely cocked up her relationship with Dad. All that love they have between them, it would have curdled like old milk. They wouldn’t have been able to stand the sight of each other, let alone pop out five more kids.”

A stick cracked somewhere in the darkness. Harry looked up hopefully.

“Who goes there?” called Charlie. His voice was light and teasing again, but Harry noticed his wand was out.

“Put it away, Charlie.” Bill’s voice came out of the dark. “It’s just us.”

“All right?” asked Charlie.

“All right,” answered Bill.

Charlie put away his wand as Bill and Ron came out of the shadows of the apple trees and flopped down on the ground at his and Harry’s feet.

“What was all that calling out about?” asked Harry bemused. “You blokes sounded like a couple of soldiers on patrol.”

“Protecting you, idiot,” said Ron, grinning. Harry looked closer. Ron’s hair was soaking wet.

“Protecting me? Oh, shit,” Harry groaned. He’d been so caught up in Ron’s troubles and Bill’s…well, just Bill, he’d forgotten all about the wards put up around the Burrow, all for his protection. He felt himself flushing. He didn’t like being the damsel in distress. “Ron,” he said to cover his embarrassment, “are you wet?”

“We both are,” said Ron cheerfully.

Harry goggled at him. Ron was grinning his usual wide grin. He looked like he’d hadn’t a care in the world. What had happened to the shell-shocked Ron of a half hour ago? Where was the furious Ron who said such terrible things about his own mother? Harry shook his head.  He was beginning to wonder if having Gerard Flint in his head was giving Ron a split personality.

“Whaja do, Bill?” asked Charlie. “Throw him in the pond?”

“He might have had a swim,” said Bill.

“He threw me in,” said Ron. “Second time today he’s stripped me naked. I’m beginning to wonder if he fancies me.”

“Aw, shaddup you,” said Bill, good-naturedly cuffing Ron’s head. “Stripping you is second nature. Who changed your nappies when Mum was chasing after the twins, with Ginny tucked under one arm? Me, that’s who. And by hand, I might add, because I was too young to use magic.”

“I intend to repay the favor,” Ron shot back, knocking Bill’s hand away. “When you’re in St. Mungo’s drooling and crapping your knickers because you blundered into some Pharaoh’s jinx.”

“Nice to know,” said Bill, casually. He stretched and grimaced, plucking his shirt away from his chest.

“Bill!” exclaimed Harry. “Are you wet too?” He hadn’t noticed because Bill’s shirt and jeans were dark and his hair was thrown over his shoulder where Harry couldn’t see it.

“Go swimming in your clothes?” asked Charlie. He lifted one eyebrow and gave Bill a courtesy drying spell.

“Right,” said Bill, suddenly laughing. “Here’s the good part—”

“Aw fuck,” said Ron, rolling his eyes. “Just don’t tell Fred and George, right? I don’t need them taking the piss out of me.”

“What happened?” demanded Harry. He looked from Ron to Bill.

“The Siren,” said Bill, laughing hard. “She must have caught site of this one,” he grabbed Ron by the shoulders and gave him a teasing shake. “I don’t know, maybe the moonlight gave his white bum a pearly glow.”

“Aw fuck off,” said Ron trying to shrug Bill’s hands off.

Bill tickled Ron, jerked him backwards to sprawl in his lap. “She swam up behind him and he let out the biggest girly scream. I just jumped in to help him out.”

“And you bloody well should have,” muttered Ron, darkly, trying in vain to sit up. “Damned nasty slag. All fish-breathed and snaggle-toothed. And that was the coldest, slimiest hug I ever had.” He shuddered and relaxed in Bill’s arms. “She coulda dragged me under!”

 

 

Back in the kitchen, Charlie cleaned up with a Tergeo and Harry sat down at the table with Bill and Ron and watched the twins pack the poultice into Ron’s cuts. Harry was amazed at how quick and efficient the twins were. Their hands moving surely and nimbly, they wrapped Ron’s arms, chest and neck in so much gauze that he resembled a mummy.

“Is this necessary?” he grumbled.

“We wanted to get your chest,” said Fred, pulling at the shirt that hung loosely on Ron’s frame, “so Hermione wouldn’t have to see your tits again. What do you think, George, finish up with a bow on his head?”

“All right, thanks, gerroff,” said Ron. “Where is Hermione anyway?” He looked furtively about the kitchen. “And where’s Mum?”

“Hermione is off with ‘Molly and Arthur,’” said George. “Having a chat.”

“Since when does she call Mum and Dad by their first names?” demanded Ron.

“Since she became a woman,” said George, smirking.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Ron, staring blankly up at George.

“She’s been in Bulgaria, Ron, think about it,” said Fred. “Honestly, how far are you going to take this clueless thing?”

“What?”

“That’s enough out of you two,” said Charlie, putting a big hand on each twin’s back and shoving. “Nice job with the poultice, now scram.” He turned to Bill and Ron. “Hermione’s had an idea,” he said.

By the time Arthur Weasley had gathered them together again, this time in the lounge area near the fireplace, Ron had grown moody and restless again. He sat on the couch between Bill and Harry and squirmed so much that Bill finally pushed him to the floor. “If you’re going to fidget,” the older wizard said, “do it down there. I’ve had my fill of your boney elbows in my ribs.”

Ron scowled at his brother but stayed on the floor where he nervously twiddled his shoelaces and unraveled bits of wool from the carpet.

Mr. Weasley sat opposite them in one of the squashy chairs, which he’d enlarged so it was big enough to fit his wife as well. Mrs. Weasley looked small next to Mr. Weasley and Harry thought she seemed a little vacant-eyed as well. He wondered if she’d been at the calming draught again.

Hermione was perched on a footstool. She was as restless as Ron but Harry knew it was with excitement. She must have some idea, he thought.

Charlie had taken over the other squashy chair, while Ginny, George and Fred sat on the floor. Dean had excused himself, which didn’t surprise Harry. His dorm-mate hadn’t been around the Weasleys like he and Hermione had. The scene at after dinner had probably been bloody uncomfortable for the quiet boy.

“Hermione’s had an idea,” said Mr. Weasley. “One that Molly and I agree we should explore. But first,” the older man turned to look at Ron. “Ron, you need to know something. What you saw…I’m referring to, urm, Gerard and your mother…that simply cannot be right.”

Ron was silent. He had his chin on one knee and was staring at his shoes, tugging sullenly on one lace. Harry glanced at Mrs. Weasley. She stared into the fireplace, looking as if she didn’t give two figs about what Ron thought.

“Ron, you know all about claiming,” Mr. Weasley urged. He seemed to want Ron to say it himself.

Ron stared at his feet. His face was white but there were scarlet patches on his cheeks.

“Come on, son,” said Mr. Weasley, gently. “Use your loaf. You know that your mother and I could not have gone on together…if she had, urm, been unfaithful.” Mr. Weasley was beginning to blush. Mrs. Weasley twitched slightly but continued to watch the blue flames in the fireplace.

Ron sat for another moment, twiddling his shoe lace. Finally he burst out, “I know how claiming works…but I also know what I saw! Maybe it wasn’t real…but it looked so real. Just as real as the…the other things Gerard showed me.”

“It wasn’t real,” said Mrs. Weasley flatly. Her hands curled in her lap; she still wouldn’t look at Ron.

“Okay,” mumbled Ron, tugging at his shoelace. “It didn’t happen.” His face was unconvinced and he looked miserable again.

“Don’t be thick, Ron,” George said. He tossed a toffee at Ron. It bounced off Ron’s shoe.

“Yeah, Ron,” added Fred. “If Mum and Gerard…well, you know, you wouldn’t be here, and more tragically, neither would we.”

Harry looked at Mrs. Weasley to see if she were reacting yet. She looked as blank as ever.

Ron picked up the toffee, turned it idly in his fingers.

“Don’t eat that,” said Ginny, from her place on the floor next to the twins. “It makes smoke come out of your nose.”

“I wasn’t going to eat it,” muttered Ron. He tossed the toffee in the fireplace.

There was a sudden pop and an enormous cloud of purple smoke came billowing out of the fireplace. Everyone jumped and started coughing as the smoke rolled over the lounge area and out into the kitchen area.

“For heaven’s sake,” said Mr. Weasley, coughing. He jumped up and started siphoning the smoke up with his wand.  

“Blimey!” cried Fred. “Didn’t know it would do that!”

“Brilliant!” chimed in George before going into a coughing fit.

Harry felt his eyes watering. The smoke was so thick now, he couldn’t see anyone but Bill, who was tinged purple on the couch next to him.  The room smelled of burnt sugar. Bill had out his wand, helping Mr. Weasley and Harry could hear Hermione’s voice, so he supposed she was helping too.

When the smoke had finally cleared, Mr. Weasley turned to Fred and George. “Anything to worry about in that?” he asked, frowning at his sons.

“We only use the safest ingredients,” said George, holding up his hands.

Fred was pointing at George, as if to say, he did it.

“I know you boys are of age,” said Mr. Weasley tersely. “But so help me, I will send you two to your room if anything else happens.”

“Or I’ll take care of them,” said Charlie, cracking his knuckles from his chair.

“Right,” said Fred, scowling at Charlie, “we know you’re feeling extra special macho tonight, having already beat up one little brother—”

“That’s enough,” snapped Mr. Weasley. “Honestly, Fred, we have some serious things to talk about, understand?”

“Sorry, Dad,” said Fred and George nodded.

With only a faint purple cloud hovering near the ceiling, Mr. Weasley returned to his seat. Harry looked at Mrs. Weasley. She appeared not to have moved at all during the fracas. She was still gazing at the fire as if it had not just belched out purple smoke.

“Ron,” sighed Mr. Weasley, rubbing anxiously at his neck. (Snakebite, Harry thought automatically.) “As I was saying…Merlin’s beard, where was I? I want you to remember what we’ve said here. It…the, you know…could not have happened. And now, as I’ve said Hermione’s had an idea I think is worth considering—”

“A Penseive!” broke in Hermione, excitedly. She whirled to face Harry. “Harry, you’ve seen Dumbledore take memories out of his head and put them in a Pensieve! Why wouldn’t that work for Ron?”

“Dunno,” said Harry, taken by surprise. He thought hard. What had Dumbledore told him about Pensieves? “I don’t know if putting a thought in a Pensieve means that the thought, you know, still isn’t in your head. That you can’t remember it at all.”

“From what I understand of Pensieves,” said Mr. Weasley, leaning forward. The older man looked hopeful. “Is that you retain the shadow of the memory or thought you remove. Gerard Flint’s thoughts seem to be quite intrusive, Ron; it might well help you if they could be reduced to shadows.”

“Anything would help,” Ron said in a low voice. He was still messing with the laces on his trainers.

“Or,” said Hermione quickly. “Removing Gerard’s memories might erase them completely, since they don’t belong to Ron in the first place.”

“I’ll have to consult Albus,” said Mr. Weasley. “Pensieves are scarce in the first place and in the second, we’d need a Legilimens to remove the thoughts.”

“Why couldn’t Harry just do it?” asked Ron, plucking at the carpet. He pulled a long string of wool out of a threadbare spot.

“Harry?” said Mr. Weasley in surprise. “I’m sure Harry’s a very talented young wizard, Ron, but he’s not a Legilimens.”

“So what?” said Ron, unraveling more of the carpet. “He’s already been in my head once. I’d just as soon limit the number of people who get to look inside my head, if it’s all the same to you lot.”

“Harry’s been in your head?” Mr. Weasley sounded dumbfounded. “How in the world did he get in your head?”

“He just pointed his wand and said, ‘Legilimens,’” said Ron, looking up at his father. “What the big deal?”

“The big deal is,” sputtered Mr. Weasley, “is that you can’t just point your wand and say ‘Legilimens’ and expect anything to happen. It’s a specialty art. You have to study Legilimency and Occlumency for years to be any good at it.”

“All I know is Harry got in my head,” said Ron. “Didn’t you, Harry?”

“Well, yes, I suppose,” said Harry flustered. “I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to be able to.”

“Actually, Harry,” said Bill. “You’re not. Dad’s right. It takes a lot of study and practice to become a Legilimens. That’s why I was so surprised the other night when you said something about seeing Ginny in Ron’s head the other night.”

“Do it to me,” Hermione said suddenly.

“What!” Mr. Weasley exclaimed.

“I think Harry should try looking into my head,” said Hermione breathlessly.

“Hermione,” said Mr. Weasley, alarmed, “think about what you’re saying. A mind is not something to be toyed with.”

“I don’t see the problem, Arthur,” said Hermione. “If Harry isn’t a Legilimens, then what could happen if he just points his wand and says, ‘Legilimens?’”

“I don’t know,” said Mr. Weasley. “I still think it’s something to be cautious about. You’re a guest in our home, Hermione, and I can’t have anything happen to you.”

“Let him have a go at me, then,” said Bill. “I know some pretty good shield charms.”

Harry looked at Mr. Weasley. The other man looked concerned, but he also looked curious.

“Well,” said Mr. Weasley, “maybe just a little wouldn’t hurt…” He nodded at Harry.

Harry slowly pulled his wand out of his back pocket. He looked at Bill, who sat just a few feet from him on the couch.

The tall redhead spread his arms wide and grinned. “Go on, Harry,” he said. “Take your best shot, mate.”

Harry glanced at Ron, who had swiveled about on the floor to watch. Ron shrugged. Beyond Ron, Harry could see Hermione. Her knee was jiggling with excitement; she reached for hair that wasn’t there any more.

“Go on, Harry,” urged Bill.”

“Legilimens.” Harry pointed his wand at Bill.

Nothing.

“Legilimens.” He tried again.

“Nothing?” asked Hermione.

“Nothing,” said Bill.

Mr. Weasley looked relieved.

“Have a go at me, Harry,” said Hermione.

Harry pointed his wand at Hermione. “Legilimens,” he said.

“Nothing,” said Hermione, cocking her head. “That’s very interesting. Why don’t you try Ron again?”

Harry and Ron looked at each other for a moment. Harry remembered what Ron had said about throttling him if he ever looked inside his head again. But Ron simply sighed. He looked resigned.

“Go on, Harry,” the redhead said. “Have at me.”

Harry pointed his wand at Ron. “Legilimens,” he said softly. The images flew at him, like bats on black wings: an arm, its Dark Mark burning; Mr. Weasley’s blue Anglia somersaulting out of the sky, thick willow branches beneath it; a woman screaming as the skin on the face dripped through her fingers like wax….then the red-haired woman, heavily pregnant, walking across a grassy pasture…”

“Harry! Stop! Expelliarmus!”

Harry’s wand flew out of his hand. He shook his head. Someone had been shouting. He looked around the room. He was alone on the couch. Bill was on the floor with Ron, his hand on the back of Ron’s head. Hermione was on the floor next to Bill.  Fred and George had risen to their knees with alarmed expressions on their faces. Ron was folded over his own knees, hands covering his face.

Mr. Weasley swore. “Ron,” he said hoarsely, jumping up from the couch, “are you all right?”

“Holy shit,” said George in a low voice.

“Medicinal chocolate,” said Fred, getting to his feet.

Mr. Weasley knelt with Ron and Bill. He pulled Ron up. “Are you all right, son?”

Ron nodded, falling back against his father, one hand holding his head. “S’all right, Dad,” he said. His face was chalky and he looked a bit ill. “It just gives you an all mighty headache, is all.”

“Bill,” called Fred. He tossed Bill a chunk of chocolate.

Bill broke off a piece and gave it to Ron. “Try this,” he said.

Ron took the chocolate and chewed slowly. He seemed to have a hard time swallowing. “Dad, you can leggo, right?”

Mr. Weasley let Ron go and fell back against the couch. He looked as whey-faced as his son.

“Here, Dad,” said Bill, breaking off another piece of chocolate. “You have some too.”

Harry noticed Ginny had gone to sit next to her mother in the enlarged chair. She had an arm protectively about Mrs. Weasley. Mrs. Weasley was watching the scene on the floor dispassionately. Her hand went absently to her throat, fingers reaching for her locket.

Harry felt a shame he’d rarely known washing over him. “Ron,” he choked out. “I’m so sorry.”

Ron gave him a weak grin. “S’not so bad,” he said gamely. “’m getting used to it.”

Hermione suddenly spoke. “It’s very interesting, isn’t it?” she said, rising from the floor and going back to her footstool. She had her wand in one hand and Harry’s in the other. “It didn’t work at all with me and Bill…but Ron…” Her brown eyes searched Ron’s blue ones, then moved to Harry’s face.

Harry could feel Bill’s eyes on his face. For some reason, he couldn’t look back. He felt his color rising.

“I wonder…” began Hermione slowly. “If—”

Whatever she was going to say was lost, for at that moment, Mrs. Weasley let out a blood-curdling shriek.  



	18. Chapter 18

  
Author's notes:

This is a serial, updated about once a week...just a friendly heads-up for people who prefer to read finished pieces.

Beta'ed by [Brumeux77](http://astele.co.uk/TheQuidditchPitch/Chapter/Details/viewuser.php?uid=1234)

* * *

Sometime later, Harry found himself wandering the kitchen and lounge area alone. He had no idea where George and Fred or Ginny and Dean had gone. Hermione and “Molly” were taking a walk to sober Molly up. They’d lit their wands with Lumos spells and gone off hand in hand in the dark whileMr. Weasley had jumped in the fireplace to Floo over to the Ministry to see if he could get in touch with Dumbledore about the Pensieve idea.  
  
Harry paced the kitchen. He was enormously restless, full of prickly discomfort, and there was a dull ache hovering over his heart. And he didn’t know what he wanted more—to be out running with Ron or to have Bill come looking for him.  
  
All in all, it had been a strange night at the Burrow. First Ron’s revelations, then the backyard brawl, followed by Charlie’s interrogation and the startling discovery that he could easily see into Ron’s mind though, apparently, he couldn’t see into anyone else’s. Then there was Mrs. Weasley’s ear-splitting shriek, which had brought them all to their feet, shouting and pulling out their wands.  
  
Harry’s heart had been racing; he’d gone into an instinctive crouch, swiveling his head to look for Death Eaters, for Voldemort, and he’d elbowed his way to Hermione’s side to retrieve his wand. He’d been dumbfounded to discover the problem was Mrs. Weasley had lost her locket. But Mrs. Weasley had been beyond distraught. She’d clung to Mr. Weasley while screaming that they all had to search, that the locket simply had to be found, immediately.  


The Weasley siblings had looked just as shocked as Harry felt, but they had fallen directly to searching, upending couch cushions, peeling back the rug, shoving furniture around. Ginny had even stuck her hand down her mother’s robes to make sure the necklace wasn’t snagged in Mrs. Weasley’s undergarments.  
  
After a moment of standing in the chaos with his mouth hanging open, Harry had simply lifted his wand and shouted, “Accio, Molly’s necklace!”  
  
His quick eyes had immediately caught sight of the silvery thing across the room as it rose out of the sink. As it whipped through the air toward him, coiling and uncoiling, looking serpentine and alive, he’d had a moment to think. After all that’s happened tonight, he wondered, why is Mrs. Weasley going spare over a locket? Is it an heirloom? Did her mother pass it down to her? When it’d reached him, he’d caught it easily and handed it over to Mrs. Weasley.  
  
For the second time that night, he’d found himself squashed to Mrs. Weasley’s ample bosom and she’d sobbed without restraint into his neck.  
  
“Oh thank you, Harry, so clever of you to Accio…oh, Harry, you have no idea what this means…”  
  
Harry had flushed madly, tried as gently as he could to disengage himself but Mrs. Weasley, squeezing fiercely, had had him more or less in a body bind. He’d given up and patted her back awkwardly until Mr. Weasley had come to his rescue.  
  
Mr. Weasley had guided his wife to the couch and sat beside her with his arm about her. George had knelt in front of his mother with a knowing look. “Give me the calming draught, Mum,” he’d said. “If you want to get drunk, I’ll fetch you a Firewhiskey.”  
  
Mrs. Weasley had burst into a fresh flood of tears, wailing she deserved a drink if she wanted one. Hadn’t she just had to relieve the worst night of her life,   and hear outrageous accusations? She’d pulled the vial from her robes, flung it at George and collapsed against Mr. Weasley’s neck, absolutely wailing.  
  
Uh-oh, Harry’d thought. He’d immediately searched the room for Ron, figuring his mate would not take his mother’s words well. And he’d been right. Ron had been sidling toward the door to the back yard. Before Harry could move, however, Bill had caught Ron by the elbow and backed him into a corner. Harry had glanced again at Mrs. Weasley—she was downing a shot of Firewhiskey—before joining Bill and Ron.  
  
He’d heard Bill’s voice before he reached the pair. “Hey, hey, come on,” the tall wizard had been saying calmly. “She’s a bit hysterical, sure, and she’s had one or two. But the worst is over, right? Listen, I’m proud of you, honestly…it couldn’t have been easy…and anyway, it’s going to get better now, I promise…”  
  
Ron had put his hands up, trying to fend off Bill without actually touching him. His eyes had darted about the room. Harry had thought Ron had looked almost as panicked as he had in Aragog’s lair and he wondered if he should tell Bill his brother was about to vomit on him. Then he’d heard Ron’s low voice. “Don’t, Bill, just don’t,” he’d said sounding shaky and breathless. “Just don’t be nice to me right now…you’ll make me bawl like a baby…”  
  
“Ron—“  
  
“Please, okay? Just don’t.” Ron’s eyes had been watery and his nose red; Harry had figured he was fighting tears. “I just wanna go running, Bill.” Ron’s voice had been pleading.  
  
I want to go with you! Harry had almost said it. He’d had a niggling sense he had something to make up for. His Legilimens had been unexpectedly violent; Ron had doubled-over with pain. Harry had started to speak, but Ron had been looking over his shoulder at Charlie. “Just let me go, okay?” he’d said to Bill. “With Charlie.”  
  
Charlie had gently backed Bill off. “Just let the kid run, right? I’ll look after him.”  
  
So Ron and Charlie had gone, Hermione and Mrs. Weasley had gone, Mr. Weasley had Flooed himself off and the others had disappeared too. Harry put his hand over his heart. The strange ache was spreading from his heart down to his stomach. Ron was a fast runner, but he could easily catch him up on his Firebolt. Or he could go look for Bill.  
  
Harry climbed the stairs. The house seemed strangely empty. It was silent, which was rare. Even at night, there were usually noises. Someone was always snoring, Mr. Weasley, Charlie or Ron, and it seemed to Harry the Burrow bathrooms were never empty, even in the middle of the night. Maybe it was because he was always here when the house was crowded, but Harry was always vaguely aware of padding feet and flushing toilets when he slept at the Burrow.  
  
He continued up the stairs. He looked through open doors, paused at closed ones. If there was anyone in the closed rooms, they weren’t making any noise. It was almost eerie, like everyone had Apparated away without telling him. Finally he reached the top of the stairs and swung the door open to Ron’s room. It was empty too. Harry felt desolate.  
  
Then he heard a soft noise, a plinking, then a little melody picked from a rinky-dink piano. His eyes traveled up. The noise was coming from above his head.  
   
Harry knew there was a door out on the landing that led to the attic. He’d opened it once or twice, mistaking it for Ron’s room when he’d first started coming to the Burrow. He opened it now and mounted the stairs. The music came to his ears and he heard a howl and something crashing against the wall. That would be the ghoul, he thought, trying to stop the piano-player, who kept hitting sour notes.  
  
“Is that thing out of tune?” he asked when he reached the top of the stairs.  
  
Bill’s head came up and he gave Harry a rueful smile. “No,” he said, “Mum keeps it tuned. I just really suck…can’t play at all.”  
  
“I noticed,” said Harry. He felt relieved just to see Bill. The dull ache climbed out of his stomach, but he could still feel it in his heart.  
  
Bill spun around on the bench to face him. “You look miserable, kiddo,” he commented.  
  
“Right,” said Harry. He hesitated at the top of the stair, raking his hand nervously through his hair. “Urm, weird night, huh?”  
  
“Weird,” agreed Bill.  
  
“Do you feel bad too?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Bill stood up and Harry walked across the room to meet him. They met in the middle of the attic room and stood looking at each other for a moment. Then Bill held out his arms to Harry and Harry let himself melt against Bill. For a long time they just stood holding each other, Harry with his head comfortably against Bill’s shoulder.  
  
Harry finally raised his head.  
  
Bill looked away.  
  
Harry sighed and tucked a long lock of hair behind Bill’s ear. “Bill,” he said softly, hating the plea that had crept into his voice. “I just want to feel better"  
  
Bill nodded. “I know,” he said. He still wouldn’t look at Harry.  
  
Harry was unsure. Bill was pointedly not kissing him. But he was still holding him. What was he to make of that? Shyly he raised his head to nuzzle at Bill’s neck. For a moment, Bill was rigid, then something in him seemed to give way and he relaxed a little. Encouraged, Harry let his lips travel up Bill’s neck to the sensitive spot just under his ear. He kissed, lapped gently with his tongue. Bill sighed and tightened his arms about Harry. Harry moved to the crook of the older wizard’s neck, sucking gently. He knew better than to leave a mark. Even with Bill’s erection pressing against his own.  
  
Bill sighed again and Harry felt the last of the older man’s resistance slipping away. To his relief, Bill finally turned to look at him. He lifted Harry’s chin with one finger and kissed him softly on the mouth. Harry parted his lips and they kissed with the hesitant tenderness of two people trying to comfort each other. Bill cradled the back of Harry’s head with one big hand while his other hand held Harry at the small of the back. Harry wound his arms around Bill’s neck and tangled his fingers in the long hair. He deepened the kiss. He felt almost in control. He had started this, hadn’t he? Maybe it was time for him to take the lead, show Bill he could drive Bill crazy.  As crazy as Bill had driven him. He ran his tongue lightly over Bill’s lower lip and carded his fingers in the silky red hair. Bill wrapped his arm around Harry’s waist and pulled him in tighter. Then he slipped his hand under Harry’s shirt. His fingers moved lightly over Harry’s ribs, his stomach. Harry bit back a moan and pressed himself against Bill, suddenly kissing eagerly.  
  
Bill responded immediately. He let out a low growl and pulled Harry in so tight the boy’s heels left the ground. He thrust his tongue deep into Harry’s mouth and the hand at Harry’s ribs moved to his arse, squeezing one buttock hard.  
  
“Bill.” Harry found himself gasping into the other wizard’s mouth. His illusions of control were slipping away. “It’s so…” He clutched the taller man’s shoulders.  
  
Bill broke the kiss and moved his lips down to Harry’s neck where he kissed the pulse point of Harry’s throat. He put his lips against Harry’s ear. “Take off your shirt,” he ordered, his voice a rough whisper.  
  
Harry stepped back, his hands trembling on the hem of his t-shirt. He was breathing hard. Bill was calling the shots now and Harry was more than willing to let him have his way. He yanked his shirt over his head swiftly, forgetting his glasses, which came off with the shirt.  
  
He fumbled for his glasses, but Bill took the shirt before he could find them.  
  
“How well do you really need to see?” asked the older man, dropping the shirt on the piano bench behind him. He came at Harry so quickly then that Harry took a step back before he could stop himself. He was used to Bill’s gentleness; this aggressiveness was new. Bill caught him by the upper arms, pulled him against his chest and kissed him with an intensity that left Harry jelly-legged. When Bill let him go, Harry staggered to keep from falling.  
  
Bill’s eyes were on him, hot and tawny. “Take off the jeans, now,” he said.  
  
Harry’s face flushed and his stomach looped. His nipples peaked into hard nubs and his cock, already hard, tried to unfold itself in the shell of his jeans. He unfastened the button and tugged at the zip. His erect cock was a visible lump in his y-fronts , but Harry stopped, suddenly embarrassed. In a moment, he would be naked. And no one had ever seen him naked before, not in this way.  
  
Again Bill moved in. His hands were quick and sure on Harry’s jeans, on Harry’s body. He had Harry stripped and down on the floor before Harry knew what was happening. He laid Harry on his back and knelt above him, looking him over from the top of his head to his bare feet.  
  
Harry shivered. If he hadn’t been so turned on, he would have died of embarrassment. Even without his glasses on he could see the hunger on Bill’s face. Suddenly, he wanted that hunger fiercely. He wanted to be engulfed and overwhelmed; he wanted to be devoured. “Bill,” he groaned helplessly.  
  
“Harry,” murmured Bill, lowering his fully clothed body on top of Harry’s nude one. “You’re shaking. S’hot…you have no idea how hot...”  
  
 “Just do something,” Harry moaned. He wanted to writhe but the larger wizard’s weight limited his movements. He pushed up frantically with his hips, grinding his cock against the denim of Bill’s jeans.  
  
Bill raked Harry’s hair away from his face. Taking the boy’s head in a firm grip, he kissed him roughly, pushing his tongue into Harry’s mouth. Harry moaned, feeling the kiss drive his head against the hard floor. His embarrassment was gone; he wanted only now to be taken. Taken control of, taken out of his mind and into a place where he could do nothing but feel his skin crawling with pleasure. Taken care of. Bill’s hands stroked his chest, his thumbpads rolled Harry’s hard nipples and his kiss grew even more demanding. Harry heard something like a whine coming out of his own mouth. He locked his arms around Bill’s wide back and held on. The tightness was already gathering at the base of his penis. Not yet, he thought, too soon.  
  
He tried to turn his head away from Bill’s to collect himself, but Bill was having none of it. He forced Harry back into the kiss and pinched at his nipples. Harry gave a cry into Bill’s mouth and Bill slid his hand down to grasp Harry’s cock. Harry felt like screaming. He planted his feet on the floor and lifted his hips. He pushed into Bill’s hand, wanting more.  
  
Bill turned his head away from Harry’s to lick his own hand. Then his mouth was back on Harry’s, hot, wet and slippery, while he rolled to the side a bit to take Harry’s cock in his hand again. He began stroking with long sure strokes. Harry gripped the back of Bill’s shirt, writhing.  
  
Harry could feel Bill’s erection through his jeans. The older wizard pushed his groin against Harry’s hip, the rough denim scraping against Harry’s naked skin. Harry reached with one hand for Bill’s shirt, intending to unfasten the buttons. But Bill seized his wrist and pulled his arm above his head. He pinned Harry’s wrist to the floor with the hand he was using to hold himself up and went back to stroking Harry’s cock. With one arm pinned between his and Bill’s bodies and the other wrist held to the floor, and his naked body stretched beneath Bill’s clothed one, Harry felt more vulnerable than he had ever been. He tried to fight back, but Bill squeezed his cock and just like that Harry gave over. He gave over the last of his control, he gave his body over to Bill and let his mind depart. This was what he had wanted, what he had wanted all along, to be taken to that place where he didn’t hurt or if he did hurt it was just an acute physical sensation among many acute sensations: the friction against his cock and the impression of friction against places that weren’t even being touched. His nipples, his anus, each felt like a bundle of nerves, live and tingling. His ribs, his belly, his neck, the small of his back. Everywhere Bill had touched, he’d left a handprint that still caressed, still teased and burned.  
  
Bill suddenly broke the kiss. He ran his tongue around Harry’s lips, then lowered his head to Harry’s right nipple. His tongue was like exquisite sandpaper against the responsive flesh. Harry hissed through his teeth. He felt like he was struggling against a strong current. His pinned wrist pushed against Bill’s hand, his chest pushed against Bill’s mouth and his cock pushed itself back and forth in Bill’s hot, wet grip. He put his face into Bill’s shoulder to muffle a shriek. He was coming hard. His hips were bucking and he was shooting stream after stream of come. Bill’s tongue relentlessly worked his nipple, which seemed to add a second wave to his orgasm. Finally Harry was limp and panting on the floor. Bill released him. He smoothed the fringe off Harry’s sweaty brow before falling heavily to his back on the floor beside Harry.  
  
Harry looked at his wrist. Bill’s tight grip had left a red ring on his pale skin. He traced it wonderingly with one finger before rolling to face Bill.  
  
Bill lay beside him, one arm behind his head. He stared up at the attic ceiling with a furrow between his brows. He looked as broody as Ron. Harry moved again to unbutton the older wizard’s shirt.  
  
Again Bill caught his wrist. “Don’t,” he said, his voice rough.  
  
Harry dropped his hand. He remembered how tender and gentle Bill had been with him in the garden and on the floor of Ron’s room. He felt unaccountably lonely.  
  
Suddenly Bill sighed. “It’s not all hearts and flowers, is it?” he said as if reading Harry’s mind.  
  
“I don’t know what it is,” said Harry softly. “I honestly don’t.” He was confused and for the first time, he felt unsure about what he was doing with Bill. He was also embarrassed to be undressed while Bill was fully clothed. He sat up, looking for his pants and jeans. “Bill,” he asked, tentatively, “why won’t you let me…I mean, do something for you?”  
  
Bill gave a harsh laugh. “I don’t trust myself,” he said.  
  
“Trust yourself to what?”  
  
“Not to go all the way.” He put his hand gently on Harry’s back.  
  
Harry felt better now that Bill was touching him again. He hadn’t minded Bill’s rough treatment, in fact it had been what he needed. If was as if Bill had forced him to sweat out some poison that was in his system. If only Bill had come with him, sweated out his own poison. If only Harry hadn’t felt so abandoned afterwards. “I wouldn’t have minded if we’d gone all the way,” he said shyly.  
  
“I would have.” Bill’s voice was flat.  
  
Dismayed, Harry looked away.  
  
“I’m sorry.” Bill’s hand stroked his back gently. “It’s just that…shit…this is a bit messed up…messed up, tangled up…confusing.” He sighed and pulled at Harry’s shoulder. “Come on, just let me just hold you, willya?”  
  
Harry let himself fall back against Bill’s shoulder. Bill wrapped both arms around Harry, pulling him part way on top of him. Harry tucked his head under Bill’s chin. His heart ached.  
  
After a while, Bill sighed. “You’re hurt,” he said.  
  
Harry nodded.  
  
“Come on, get dressed. I know something that might make you feel better.”  
  
Harry dressed and followed Bill down the winding stairs. He heard voices as they neared the kitchen. It was Mrs. Weasley and Hermione returned from their walk. The two women sat flushed and bright-eyed at the table. Mrs. Weasley seemed back to her usual energetic and unshakable self, though after all weeping, all the calming draught and Firewhiskey, Harry didn’t see how. He wondered if Hermione had slipped her one of those reviving, mini-Ennervation spells.  
  
“Mum,” said Bill, putting his hand in the small of Harry’s back and guiding him over to the table. “Harry’s a bit shaken up, after tonight. I wonder if he could do with a bit of your mother’s magic.”  
  
  
Mrs. Weasley beamed at Harry. “Why, of course. Come here, dear,” she said, patting the bench beside her.   


Harry glanced at Hermione. Hermione too gave him a benign smile and nodded at him. Her short curls bobbed with the motion of her head. She’s changed somehow, Harry thought. It’s almost like she’s Mrs. Weasley’s friend now instead of mine and Ron’s. It wasn’t like that at term’s end. Could she have grown up overnight? Harry sat on the bench next to Mrs. Weasley.

“Here, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said patting his shoulder. “Face me.”

Harry rearranged himself so he straddled the bench, facing Mrs. Weasley. On the opposite side of the table, Bill sat down next to Hermione. She beamed up at Bill and Harry thought he saw a flicker in her intelligent eyes. Blimey, he thought, either she’s putting two and two together and coming up with Harry and Bill, or she fancies him herself. Neither thought gave him comfort.

Suddenly Mrs. Weasley poked him in the chest with her wand. He jumped. Being on the business end of a wand was always a bit alarming. But Mrs. Weasley was humming and making a fluid motion with her hand. It was like she was drawing graceful figure eights over his heart. She hummed and her hand went back and forth. Harry soon saw that the motion was more complicated than figure eights. Sometimes her wrist was up, sometimes it was down. It were almost if she were weaving with one hand. After a moment she started singing.

For a moment, Harry just listened to the tune. It was haunting and familiar, Mrs. Weasley’s voice, sweet and clear. Her hand motions were almost hypnotic. A calmness began to steal over him.

Your vows you’ve broken, like my heart,

Oh, why did you so enrapture me?

Now I remain in a world apart

But my heart remains in captivity.

Harry felt tears pricking at his eyes. Mrs. Weasley’s voice was washing over him and it was as if someone were removing hatpins, one by one, from his heart. The pain faded and a gentle peace took its place. Mother’s magic, he thought.

Mrs. Weasley finished by drawing a small cross with her wand on his chest. Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Thank you, Molly,” he whispered.

“My pleasure, dear,” said Mrs. Weasley. Then she snatched him up in a hug so fierce she forced the air from his lungs.

“Mrs. Weasley,” Harry wheezed. “What did you just do it me” He was only now realizing he’d called her by her first name.

“Just mother’s magic, like Bill said,” said Mrs. Weasley, giving him another bone-crunching squeeze before letting him go. (Harry had the feeling he was getting Ron’s share of Mrs. Weasley’s mother’s hugs.) “It’s a healing song. Something my mother taught me. Her mother taught her and so forth. A healing song soothes the little hurts. I’m sure your mother did one for you when you were colicky or fussing. All witches do it for their children. Even after they’re grown.” She shot a look at Bill.

“The song,” said Harry. “It was so familiar.”

“I know it as Greensleeves,” interjected Hermione. “It’s an old ballad from the 1400s or 1500s. In the Muggle world, we hear it a lot at Christmas time with different words,” she said, turning to look at Mrs. Weasley.

“But how does it work?” Harry asked wonderingly. “It…the song was so haunting and sad. Broken hearts, broken vows. How could it have made me feel so much better?”

Mrs. Weasley smiled fondly at him and touched his cheek. “Magic, dear Harry,” she said. “You do know that music is magic, don’t you, child?”

Harry shook his head.

“Well, it is,” said Mrs. Weasley firmly. “And I asked my mother the same question, how can such a sorrowful song make you feel better? She told me when you’re sad, a happy song won’t do. You need a sad song that sympathizes with you and takes away some of your sadness with it.”

Harry supposed that made sense. As much as anything else in the wizarding world. He rubbed at his chest over his heart. It was all right. For the first time since he’d head Ron’s description of his mother’s death, he felt himself. For the first time, save for the few moments Bill was holding him down and making him shoot ejaculate out of his eyeballs, he didn’t hurt. 

Just then the backdoor flung open and Ron and Charlie came trouping in. Charlie was windblown and wild-haired from flying. Ron was flushed and sweaty from running. The bandages the twins had carefully wrapped him in were unraveling, hanging out of the too-big shirt he still wore.

“Ronald Weasley,” said Mrs. Weasley sharply. “You go right upstairs and shower off and let me…or someone…fix those bandages. The twins put your poultice in jars.”

Ron nodded his head and ran lightly up the stairs. Charlie stopped for a drink of water.

“How was he?” asked Bill.

“A little off,” answered Charlie. “Slower than usual and spewed twice. I think he’s got a bit of a headache.”

Harry was sure Ron did. He watched Charlie follow Ron up the stairs, then turned to look at Bill. The older wizard’s eyes were sad.

“Mrs. Weasley,” Harry said suddenly. “I think you should do it to Bill…your mother’s magic, I mean.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Weasley, looking pleased. She beckoned to Bill. “Come on, love.”

Bill rolled his eyes at Harry but he got up and straddled the bench facing his mother. Harry went to sit next to Hermione to give him room. Again Mrs. Weasley sang the haunting little tune and made the complicated motions, the tip of her wand just grazing Bill’s shirt over his heart.

Greensleeves was all my joy

Greensleeves was my delight,

Greensleeves was my heart of gold,

And who but my Lady Greensleeves. 

Bill let his head hang and the curtain of hair fell over his face. Harry felt the quiet peace wash over him again. It not only affects the person being sung to, he thought, but the people nearby. Beside him, Hermione sighed. Her eyes were closed and her face shining. She was as content and calm as a cat in the sun.

“I’d forgotten how nice that is,” said Bill, lifting his head when Mrs. Weasley had finished.

“You forgot!” shrieked Mrs. Weasley. She clipped Bill smartly on the head with her wand. “You boys,” she said. “You grown-up boys! Thinking that because you’re out of the house and making your own money, you don’t need your mother’s magic. Shame on you.” She smacked him again with her wand.

“Ow, Mum,” said Bill laughing. He put his hands up defensively. “Believe it or not, I want my mummy all the time…especially when I have a head cold. But you’re here and I’m usually in Africa. So I just have to muddle through, don’t I?”

“Pfft,” said Mrs. Weasley, smacking him yet again. “Need your mother! You know ruddy well, Bill Weasley, that if I thought you needed me, I’d owl myself over right away.”

“I’d like to see Errol make that trip,” said Bill, still laughing. He sprang up when Mrs. Weasley smacked him again and darted around the table to hide behind Harry and Hermione.

Harry stopped laughing long enough to ask something else that had occurred to him. “Can anyone do this, Mrs. Weasley? Or do you have to be a mother?”

“Oh, anyone can do it,” said Mrs. Weasley. Her face was bright. The song’s magic and Bill’s playfulness had brought her her own measure of healing. “Anyone who can sing, that is. And move their hand. But it’s like holding someone or rocking a child. It just comes naturally to mothers.”

“I’ve never heard a healing song like Mum’s,” Bill said. He too was a lot lighter than he had been moments ago. “Mum’s got perfect pitch, you know. No one sings a healing like Mum.”

“Ron does,” Mrs. Weasley objected. “He’s got perfect pitch too.”

“Talking about me?”

Harry turned to see Ron at the bottom of the stairs. He was freshly showered, the heavy wet hair down to his shoulders. His feet were bare and he was wearing another one of his long-sleeved shirts.

“Ah, Ron,” said Mrs. Weasley, her brightness fading a bit. “Let’s see about the poultice, shall we?”

“Wait a minute, Mrs. Weasley,” said Harry. He’d had a sudden inspiration. “Will you do your healing song for Ron, too?”

“Is that what you lot have been up to down here?” asked Ron suspiciously.

“Yeah,” said Bill. “Mum just did me and Harry, so now you can take a turn.” He put his hands on Ron’s shoulders and steered him around the table and pushed him down on the bench next to Mrs. Weasley.

Ron sat, looking doubtful and like he might bolt.

“Don’t move,” said Mrs. Weasley, poking his chest with her wand.

Ron swallowed thickly, then nodded.

Mrs. Weasley had already begun humming and making the graceful loops with her wand hand. She began to sing, her voice clear and soft.

I have been ready at your hand,

To grant whatever you would crave,

I have both wagered life and land,

Your love and good-will for to have.

Again, Harry felt the music suffuse him. It’s like a balm, a salve, he thought in a kind of a daze. I feel protected, like nothing bad or hurtful can touch me. If Ron can do this, then he’s going to have to put out. I’ll make him do it to me before every Potions.

Mrs. Weasley finished, drawing a small cross over Ron’s heart. Ron didn’t move.

“All right, Ron?” asked Bill.

Ron nodded without looking up. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess I’d just forgotten, you know?” He stole a shy glance at his mother. “No one does that like you, Mum.”

Mrs. Weasley looked pleased but Hermione cleared her throat. “I hear you can do it too, Ronald,” she said briskly. “I think you should do it now for your mother.” She had her chin up, like she expected a fight from Ron.

“What?” said Ron, staring incredulously at Hermione. “Are you daft? I don’t sing.”

“I’ve heard differently,” said Hermione, curtly. “And I think you might spare you mother a healing song, after all she’s been through tonight.” She glared at Ron.

Ron glared back. “Oh, thanks for that, Hermione,” said he said bitterly. “Like I asked for all this.”

“It’s not a bad idea, Ronnie,” said Bill softly. He was standing back from the table with his arms folded. “You might give it a bash.”

“If I get backed into one more corner tonight…” groused Ron, running his hand through his wet hair with agitation. Suddenly he changed tactics. “I haven’t had a wand in my hand all summer.”

Hermione promptly offered hers.

Ron glowered at her. He reached over the table and took Harry’s wand instead. “All right,” he said angrily. “But I’m not singing.”

He turned to face his mother who had sat through this exchange with her face calm and her hands folded. Mrs. Weasley might want this, thought Harry, but she’s not going to be the one to push Ron, not this time. Hermione’s stepping in for her. Again he wondered at the growing connection between Hermione and Mrs. Weasley.

Ron took a moment to collect himself. He turned Harry’s wand nervously in his hand before touching it to his mother’s heart. Then with his eyes downcast, he started humming softly. His voice was much lower than Mrs. Weasley’s and there was something slightly scratchy about it, but Harry was surprised how it seemed to fill up his ears. Music is magic, he remembered Mrs. Weasley saying.

But it wasn’t working. Harry felt none of the gentle peace and contentment he’d felt when Mrs. Weasley had sung. He knew instinctively that the problem wasn’t Ron’s singing. The redhead’s ear was obviously excellent, he knew where every note was. But still it wasn’t working.

After a moment, Harry knew why. It was Ron’s hand motions. He was holding the wand too tightly; his movements were stiff where Mrs. Weasley’s had been light and fluid. His hand was also shaking badly.

“It’s okay, love,” Mrs. Weasley said kindly to Ron. “You tried and that does mean the world.”

Ron shook his head, his eyes downcast again. “I’m off tonight, Mum…all cack-handed.” He laid his wand hand on the table despondently.

“Harry,” said Hermione, abruptly. “Help him.” Her voice had that don’t-argue-with-me tone. “It’s your wand after all,” she said.

“How can I help?” asked Harry.

“Sit behind him,” said Bill. “And put your hand over his.”

Harry looked at Ron but Ron wouldn’t look back. He was letting Harry make the decision. Mrs. Weasley was looking carefully blank. But Harry knew she wanted this. And that meant he had to try. He rose and walked to the other side of the table. Then he straddled the bench behind Ron.

“Now put your hand over his, Harry” said Bill. “You remember the hand motions?”

Harry nodded. He’d seen Mrs. Weasley sing three times now. He was pretty sure he could duplicate her movements. But would it work? “It’s magic,” he said, stalling a bit.. “Can two people do magic together?”

“It depends,” answered Bill. “You either can or you can’t. Won’t know until you try.”

“Arthur and I can do it,” put in Mrs. Weasley softly. “So can Fred and George.”

“Oh,” said Harry. Suddenly he felt like his friendship with Ron was on the line. He looked at Mrs. Weasley again. She had a look in her eyes he couldn’t quite decipher. He put his hand uneasily on Ron’s and curled their fingers together around the wand. “Ready, mate?” he asked.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” said Ron, his voice hoarse.

Harry lifted their hands together and pointed the wand at Mrs. Weasley’s heart. He began the back and forth motion he’d watched Mrs. Weasley do. After a moment, he stopped. “Loosen up a bit,” he said to Ron. “You’re gripping too tight. He massaged Ron’s hand a little with his fingers, releasing some of the tension. Then he began the movement again. It took a moment, but soon he was sure he was duplicating Mrs. Weasley’s pattern. Wrist down, sweep, turn and circle, wrist up, dip, turn and circle. Ron’s hand was shaking so hard under his it made the pattern wobbly. Still Harry could feel the rightness of it. “Go on, mate,” he said to Ron.

Ron took a deep breath and let it out. Harry put his free hand on Ron’s shoulder. The redhead was trembling like a rabbit. “It’s all right,” Harry said. “I can feel it.”

Ron took another deep breath and started humming. The words of the song tumbled through Harry’s head and he could suddenly imagine how beautiful it would be if Ron would only open his mouth and sing. It still wasn’t working, though, and Ron was shaking like he was about to fall to pieces. Harry moved his hand from Ron’s shoulder and placed it on his side to steady him. Then, suddenly knowing what to do, he wrapped his arm around Ron’s waist and pulled their two bodies together.

And it happened. One moment there was nothing and in the next, Harry felt it rolling over him, the most profound sense of peace and well-being he’d ever felt. It was liquid and golden and it laced around his heart, filling it with a trembling joy. He noticed Ron was singing now, very soft and very low, and in Latin instead of English. His voice was as lovely as Harry had imagined it would be. He laid his cheek against Ron’s back, floating on the warmth of his mate’s body, enthralled by the sweet song and the way he could feel the magic rolling from him to Ron and back again. Ron was still shaking, but he managed to keep the song going; its haunting eerie lilt rose up in the quiet kitchen. Harry no longer had to pay attention to what their hands were doing. The pattern moved on its own now, he could feel it weaving the song into Mrs. Weasley’s heart, drawing away her pain. Harry sighed. This was way beyond what Mrs. Weasley had done for him. He felt like all good things were his: peace, comfort, safety, love.

Mrs. Weasley’s voice broke in. “That’s lovely, Ronnie,” she said gently. “But you don’t have to go on, love.”

Ron laid their joined hands on the table. Harry held on to him, dazed with contentment, drifting through a moment of tranquility so deep he was sure it would never go away. He wondered briefly why Ron was still shaking, then he realized it didn’t matter. Ron was shaking for some reason, he didn’t have to know why; he only had to hold him ’til it was over. A vague thought floated across his mind, I don’t think we’re doing mother’s magic any more, as he tightened his hold around Ron’s waist. He pulled their bodies closer together and stroked Ron’s wand hand with his own. He could feel the magic still rolling like water between them…and the song, though Ron was no longer singing, still lingered in the air.

He heard Ron’s voice, as if from a distance.

“I don’t understand,” he said and his voice sounded absolutely grief-stricken. “This is supposed to be a healing song…how can it make me feel this way?”

Harry dreamily lifted his head from Ron’s back. His mate’s face was turned to the side. There were tears streaming down his face and his chest was heaving.

Mrs. Weasley put her hand on Ron’s cheek. “You’re crying,” she said. “That, child, is healing.”

She gently drew Ron forward until his head rested on her shoulder. Harry was pulled forward too. He was still holding Ron around the waist and his wand hand still held Ron’s. Mrs. Weasley glanced at their joined hands, then her eyes met Harry’s. She gave him a brilliant smile. 

  
  



	19. Chapter 19

  
Author's notes:

This is a serial, updated about once a week...just a friendly heads-up for people who prefer to read finished pieces.

Betaed by [Brumeux77](http://astele.co.uk/TheQuidditchPitch/Chapter/Details/viewuser.php?uid=1234)

* * *

When Harry found himself in the lounge area, he was still in a euphoric daze. Drifting down gently, weightless and loose like he was billowing cloth coming gently to earth—yeah, it felt something like that. Like Ron’s wand hand was still under his, hot and curling into a fist. Like his cheek was still against Ron’s back, warm and a bit damp from Ron’s wet hair. Like the music was still in him, furling and unfurling like a breathing thing.

“Harry.” Hermione’s voice hissed in his ear. She was beside him on the couch, speaking softly but with great excitement. “That was bond magic, Harry! It was so amazing! Do you know how rare bond magic is?”

He could hardly hear her. His head was buzzing and his heart was full to bursting with what he was slowing recognizing as relief. He felt as though he’d found something he’d never known was lost. Or awakened from the kind of dream he rarely had—one that filled the dreamer with a well-being that lasted all day. And there was a…what? A rightness? The only thing he could compare it to was the day he’d first kicked off on a broom. I was meant to do this!

“It was beautiful, Harry,” Hermione’s voice continued in its breathless way. Her arm was linked with his and her body pressed to his side. Which felt odd to him as he could still feel the imprint of Ron’s body all along his front. “There were colors, Harry,” she said. “Reds and golds, wound round with greens and blues. I’ve never seen such a thing. Have you, Bill?”

A sound came from behind Harry, a sort of noncommittal grunt.

“Colors?” said Harry, shaking his head to clear it. “I don’t remember colors.” He did remember what the healing had looked like—a looping ribbon, the figure eight, pressed against Mrs. Weasley’s heart. And he remembered Ron’s low voice scratching over the Latin words and how he’d been shaking so hard Harry had instinctively held him closer. He’d known it was okay, the shaking—because he and Ron, between the two of them, had opened some sort of tap that poured out magic. It had flowed out unchecked, the magic, filling him, filling Mrs. Weasley and Harry knew it would have filled Ron too if only he’d been able to keep his arms around his mate. But something had happened. They’d been interrupted. Harry had been tugged away and the magic had broken. “We weren’t finished,” he said, hearing the longing in his own voice. “What stopped us?”

“That,” said Bill. The older wizard was standing behind the couch with his arms folded. He nodded toward the kitchen table.

Harry looked. It took him a moment to understand what he was seeing. “Oh,” he said, taken aback. 

Arthur Weasley had returned. He was at the table with Mrs. Weasley; between them, they held Ron, and Ron was simply breaking apart. His palms were pressed to his temples, his fingers tangled in his hair. His body jerked with violent tremors. 

“Bloody hell,” Harry whispered, half-rising.

“Don’t.” Bill’s hand pressed down on his shoulder. “Not now.”

“But—” said Harry. “If we’d finished…”

“No,” said Bill urgently. He pressed Harry firmly down. “They’ve needed this. Let Mum…just let her have this, Harry.”

Harry wanted to return to the table, so much he found himself pushing against Bill’s restraining hand. He wondered if this was what it felt like to be splinched—half of him was here on the couch, the other half across the room at the table and the two pieces were calling to each other. He let himself fall back into the couch reluctantly. Bill was right. He couldn’t go. He had no place at the table. Something else was happening now and Harry wasn’t a part of it. It was between Ron and his parents, the first steps of a mending, a rapprochement, absolution on both sides. All the things Ron had seen this summer, the estrangement Molly had suffered, the brutal things she’d had to hear. None of that could be taken back. But they could, Harry supposed, be forgiven. He watched Ron wrap his arms around his ribs, curl into himself. Harry knew what his mate was feeling—he was fighting to hold it all down, the cold and biting things inside, the jagged, cutting things that wanted to claw their way out. Harry remembered his own moment of explosive weeping in the garden with Bill—how his muscles had ached from keeping the grief down in his belly when it wanted to burst out of his throat in howls. Ron would lose this battle, Harry knew, just as Harry had. He only hoped someone would have the decency to cast a silencing spell for Ron like Bill had cast for him. 

Ron pulled away from his parents. He laid his head on the table in his folded arms. Harry heard one harsh gasp before Mr. Weasley cast the spell. 

Bill turned sharply. He walked out of the back door, let it slam behind him.

Harry sank into the couch next to Hermione and then, for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, other than wanting to be close to someone and because she was his Hermione, burrowed into her side. She put her arms around him and held him tight.

Huddled with Hermione on the couch, Harry watched Ron go to pieces. Convulsive shudders rolled silently through the redhead’s body; his back heaved and his shoulders wrenched. Mrs. Weasley put her head next to Ron’s, petted his hair. Mr. Weasley rubbed his back, then set about reapplying poultice and bandages. He worked around the long-sleeved t-shirt as best he could; Harry was thankful Mr. Weasley had the sense not to ask Ron to give up one more layer of protection.

After a long time, Ron sat up and scrubbed his face with a flannel his mother gave him. His body jerked in curious intervals that puzzled Harry until he recognized his mate had the hiccups. Mrs. Weasley held Ron’s forehead to hers for a moment, then she pulled back and searched Ron’s eyes. Ron nodded. He stood up and let his parents guide him toward the stairs. He walked between them, towering over his mother, half a head taller than his father, nearly grown and of age, but still their child.

Harry turned and hid his face in Hermione’s shoulder. Inside, he could feel all the places where the magic, the peace, comfort and relief had settled. He wished he could gather them all up to send it in a magicked ball after Ron. 

* * *

Harry had a job extracting himself from Hermione’s arms, she was so intent on comforting someone. Some other time he might have enjoyed the way she was holding him, stroking him in a rather maternal way, but at the moment he felt nothing but a great impatience. And when Hermione wanted to talk about bond magic, he cut her off. “Look,” he said, putting both hands on her shoulders and looking her in the eye to make sure she got the point. “What ever you do, don’t go on to Ron about this.” She looked at him like he’d deprived her of a great treat, her face hurt and puzzled. He tried to explain. “It feels,” he said, “very personal.” He put his hand on his belly. “Like it was drawn from someplace very deep. Let Ron come to you if he wants to talk about it.” Hermione nodded, of course she understood. Still Harry could see the disappointment on her face. She went to bed shortly afterwards. 

With Hermione gone, Harry knew his next job was to find Bill. He had the feeling the older wizard was brooding somewhere out there in the dark. Lighting his wand with a Lumos spell, he opened the back door and stepped outside. The moon was a round disk high in the sky, so bright it looked like a silver button. Its light fell on the garden, painting the dark shapes, the bench, the hedges and trees, with a dull grey sheen. There was no one to be seen so Harry started for the orchard. He ducked his head as he walked under an apple tree. The trees grew close in the orchard; their thick canopies completely blocked the moon’s pale light. Harry was swallowed into the darkness. He raised his wand higher. Its cold light lit the underside of the branches making them look like crooked white arms. It was a bit spooky, actually. Harry wondered if he should be out on his own.

“Harry.”

Harry had spun quickly in the direction of the voice, his wand extended, before his mind registered who was speaking. “Bill?”

“Yeah, and for fuck’s sake, don’t point that thing at me,” Bill said testily. “We’ve had enough excitement for one night.” The older wizard heaved a great sigh. “Though if you wanted to hex me, I don’t reckon I’d blame you.” Bill was sitting with his back to a tree, a scowl on his face. His knees were drawn up and he was smoking more of his wizard’s hash. Harry recognized the cloying scent. He put his wand down but he didn’t approach Bill. Something told him he wasn’t welcome. 

“I wouldn’t hex you,” he said, a bit stung by Bill’s tone. “If you want to fight, go find Charlie. He’s game to take on anyone who wants a go. I just came to tell you your parents took Ron upstairs a while ago.”

“Right,” said Bill brusquely. “Let’s go then.” He flicked his roach carelessly into the orchard. 

Lovely, Harry thought, now we’ll have a hoard of grass-happy garden gnomes humping all over the place in the morning. 

Neither he nor Bill spoke as they climbed the rickety, twisting stairs together. Harry felt a bit lost. It was only this morning, he wondered, that I followed him up the stairs to see Charlie trying to pull Ron out of a sky-climb? And later he made love to me like he really cared. Now he seems so angry. And I feel like I’ve done something wrong.

When they reached Ron’s room, they found Mr. Weasley dozing on the cot, covered by his robe. Ron was out cold. He sprawled on his bed with his long arms and legs flung with way and that, crooked and ungainly. Harry thought his mate looked a little like he’d been hurled to the bed from a great distance.

Bill knelt by his father’s head. “Dad…Dad,” he whispered, shaking his father’s arm. “Did you reach Dumbledore?”

Mr. Weasley sat up, looking rumpled. His shirttails were out and the thin red hair stood up in wisps on his head. “Erm, ah, yes, son,” he finally said, yawning and reaching for his glasses. “Albus thinks we should give the Pensieve a go. He said the foreign memories, thoughts, whatever, must be extracted. And he did seem a bit alarmed, I’m afraid,” the older man added ruefully, “when he had the whole story. He said he’d be by himself in two days’ time.”

“Will he extract the memories, then?” asked Bill, sitting down next to his father on the cot. 

“Yes,” said Mr. Weasley. He cleaned his glasses on his shirttail before putting them on. “I’ll admit your brother did protest having his headmaster in his head, can’t say as I blame the boy. But he seems more concerned about exposing whatever rubbish he sees going on between your mother and Flint than he does about Dumbledore discovering what kinds of mischief you lot” (he nodded at Harry) “get up to at school. Molly said she didn’t give a fig if Albus saw her polka naked with Flint as long as the thoughts are extracted.”

Bill winced. “And what did Ron say to that?”

“Ah, that was more to me,” Mr. Weasley said. “Ron was pretty well gone by then. That’s some powerful stuff the twins cooked up.”

Bill’s eyes went to Ron and Harry knew he was taking in Ron’s shallow breathing, the light movements of his chest. “He looks like a bloody corpse,” the older wizard finally said, sighing. “Mum gave him more than a spot, did she?”

Mr. Weasley chuckled. “Old habit,” he said. “I always thought Molly overdosed you lot when you were kids, sometimes when you weren’t even sick. But you have to understand, by bedtime a woman with seven kids is ready for them to sleep.” He stretched and yawned.

Bill’s mouth quirked but he couldn’t seem to manage a smile. “Go to bed, Dad,” he said tightly. “I’ll stay with Ron.”

“Ah, Bill,” said Mr. Weasley, frowning a bit at his eldest. “Thank you. But Ron is my son and I’d like to stay with him tonight.”

“You look a bit knackered, Dad,” said Bill, frowning back. “What about work? Tomorrow’s Monday, you know.” 

Mr. Weasley waved his hand. “I can take sick leave for a family emergency.” he said. “Heaven knows the Ministry owes me the time.” When Bill didn’t move, Mr. Weasley put his hand on his son’s arm. “Dear boy,” he said gently. “Never think that I don’t appreciate what you’ve done this summer…the way you’ve taken care of your brother, hell, the way you’ve always taken care of him and the rest of your siblings…all of us really. But I can look after him, you know, at least for one night.”

Bill sighed and his back slumped. “Dad—” he began.

“Just a moment, son,” said Mr. Weasley holding up his hand. “I’ve had something on my mind and perhaps it’s time I spoke up.” He regarded Bill, steepling his fingers thoughtfully. “Your mother and I,” he finally said, “think of you and Charlie as our war babies. There was such anxiety when the two of you were growing up. Charlie was able to let things slide off his back, it’s his nature. But you…you were always such sensitive kid...wanting to make things right, look after people. Don’t misunderstand me, it’s a wonderful trait…one of the things your mother and I love dearly about you. In fact, we depend on it. But you’ve always been particularly protective of Ron. In this case, son, I’m not sure it’s in his best interests.” 

Bill opened his mouth to say something, but stopped when Mr. Weasley went on.

“Hear me out, child,” said Mr. Weasley holding up one hand. “This may sound odd, but what Ron’s had to go through this summer…well, I think it might do him so good.”

“You’re right,” said Bill shortly. “That does sound odd.”

“Maybe,” acknowledged Mr. Weasley. “But I think, son, your brother needs to grow up a bit…and fast, unfortunately. We are at war.” 

“Dad,” said Bill, rolling his eyes in frustration. “Here’s what I think. You’re right, we are at war, and Ron’s gotten himself on the front line, for shit’s sake! If it were up to me, I’d ship him out of the country.”

The front line, thought Harry, leaning against the doorjamb. He means me. He wondered if the two Weasleys were even aware he was still there. He knew he should have the decency to leave but he also knew he was a world-class snoop. He’d had to be as a child when listening in on the Dursleys might mean the difference between a beating and being locked in the cupboard, as opposed to merely being locked in the cupboard. And once he’d gone to Hogwarts, his Invisibility Cloak had only increased his ability to see and hear things that weren’t meant for his eyes and ears. Sure he’d gotten himself into trouble a time or two…on the other hand Ginny might have died in the Chamber if he hadn’t eavesdropped. All in all, he’d come to terms with his snoopy side.

“I understand that…I do,” Mr. Weasley was saying. “And I worry about Ron too. More than I can say. But there’s one thing I can tell you—Ron is exactly where he’s supposed to be.”

“Exactly where he’s supposed to be!” said Bill, his voice incredulous. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Just as I said. Like it or not, Ron is where he’s supposed to be.” said Mr. Weasley, looking directly at Bill. “And you need to be careful not to get in his way.”

“Where he’s supposed to be?” Bill repeated, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Harry wondered if he knew how loud his voice had become.

“That’s right,” said Mr. Weasely. 

“Come on, Dad,” said Bill angrily. “You’re going all airy-fairy and Trelawney on me—”

“I’m not, son,” said Mr. Weasley calmly. “You’re going to have to trust me on this one. There are things that you don’t know yet.”

“Things I don’t know?” cried Bill. “I’m in the Order! If there’s anything else to know, I should know it!”

“And you will know when the time is right.”

“When the time is right?” cried Bill leaping to his feet. “Dad! How much righter can it get? You-Know-Who is back and not two months ago, he tried to kill Harry, along with Ron and Ginny. Ron and Ginny, Dad! What do you know? Who else knows?”

“Sorry, son,” said Mr. Weasley. “That’s as much as I can tell you right now. Maybe I shouldn’t have told you that much—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Bill shouted. He slapped one open hand against the wall in fury. “You’re sitting me on the fucking sidelines,” he said furiously. “Why won’t you tell me?”

“A little patience, son…” said Mr. Weasley gently.

“Patience?” roared Bill, going every bit as purple in the face as Ron did when angry. “Bugger that!” He smacked his hand against the wall again and strode out of the room.

Harry winced as Bill brushed by him and stomped down the stairs. In his dragonhide boots, the tall wizard made enough noise to wake everyone in the house, save Ron, who probably wouldn’t wake for anything less than an Ennervation. Harry turned back to look at Mr. Weasley. 

Mr. Weasley sighed. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen that one throw a tantrum,” he said mildly. “This one, maybe,” he jerked his thumb at Ron. “But Bill’s always been one to keep his cool.”

Harry shook his head and looked away. He understood how Bill felt about being kept in the dark. It was bloody annoying. He was tempted to tell Mr. Weasley that Dumbledore had admitted that for all his wisdom, he’d kept some things from Harry that perhaps he should not have. “Mr. Weasley,” he said. “This thing that you’re not going to tell Bill, it has to do with me, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, Harry, it does,” said Mr. Weasley, sighing. “It has something to do with our family…and something to do with you. I’m sorry, Harry, but Albus has asked us to wait for a while longer before saying anything.”

For some reason Harry thought of Sirius and for a moment there was a spark of anger in him so hot he could barely keep it in. He pictured himself trashing the Burrow like he’d trashed Dumbledore’s office. But just as suddenly a wave of calmness rolled through him and the spark died. Where did that come from? he wondered. Am I still riding the bond magic high? Whatever the reason, Harry was glad of the calmness. Now that Bill was gone, there were a few things he’d like to bring up with Mr. Weasley himself. The trouble was where to begin.

Finally he just blurted the first thing that came to mind. “I can still feel it, Mr. Weasley,” he said. “When I close my eyes, it feels like my hand is still doing that looping thing, the figure eight…and I feel like Christmas just came…”

“Bond magic is very strong,” said Mr. Weasley nodding. “You may feel it for hours, sometimes even days, afterward. You know, Harry,” the older man leaned forward, looking intently at Harry. “That’s the first time I’ve heard Ron sing since his choir boy days. If pressed, he’ll do a healing song but he flatly refuses to sing. He hums which works well enough but when I came in he was singing…and in Latin? Where did that come from? I’ve heard Molly sing that song more times than I can count, but that’s the first time I’ve ever heard it in Latin.”

“He did start off humming,” said Harry, a thought suddenly occurring to him. “Then I wished he’d sing and he did. Does that sound weird?”

“No,” said Mr. Weasley. “That sounds exactly like bond magic. You tend to be very receptive to your partner’s wishes or emotion when the bond is in effect.” 

“But I didn’t say anything,” said Harry. “I didn’t ask him to sing.”

“I’m sure you didn’t,” said Mr. Weasley. “At least not out loud.”

Harry closed his eyes for a moment and it was there: the weaving, the looping, he could feel his hand tracing the figure eight while his heart filled up with gladness. “What is it with figure eights?” he asked, suddenly curious. “We’ve used them in Charms class and we have to stir them in Potions all the time.” 

“Ah,” said Mr. Weasley brightening. “Eights are very powerful in magic. Aside from zero, eight is the only closed number. Zeroes are important, but in a different way. They are a single circle whereas the eight is a conjoined circle. It represents the joining of two separates, so I’m not surprised the bond first manifested when you boys were drawing a figure eight. And…this is important too…when you turn an eight on its side, you have the symbol for—”

“Infinity,” said Ron loudly, sitting up suddenly on the bed. He rubbed at one eye with a fist, then abruptly lay back down and curled on one side.

“Is he awake?” asked Harry, pushing himself away from the wall and straightening up. For some reason, his heart was pounding.

“I certainly thought not,” said Mr. Weasley, frowning.

They both stared at Ron for a moment, Harry with hand over his heart, waiting for it to slow down. Ron was still again, breathing lightly, not even twitching. 

After a moment, Harry let himself lean back against the wall. “Mr. Weasley,” he said, “Mrs. Weasley said the two of you can do bond magic.”

“We’ve done it from time to time,” Mr. Weasley said, sounding slightly embarrassed.

Harry found himself flushing too. “Does it, erm, feel kind of private to you?”

“It is an intimate connection.” Mr. Weasley sounded even more embarrassed.

“Felt that way to me too,” said Harry. He was sure his face was bright red now. “I thought maybe it was something we wouldn’t normally, er, do in public. Hermione was gushing a bit but I told her not to go on about it to Ron.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Weasley. Harry wasn’t looking at the older man but he was sure Mr. Weasley’s face had gone all kinds of Weasley red. “It is mostly done in private,” Mr. Weasley admitted, “but it’s also done in a family setting and you were helping Ron with a healing. To tell you the truth, the fact that you can bond doesn’t really surprise me…not after I saw the Legilimens…”

“I was surprised,” said Harry. “I mean I wasn’t when it happened…it felt then like the most natural thing in the world. Now, that I’ve got a bit of distance, it seems amazing. But what does it mean? That Ron and I did bond magic?”

“It simply means that you boys have some sort of bond,” said Mr. Weasley. “A powerful bond. And that doesn’t surprise me either. I began to suspect you boys had an unusually strong connection at the Triwizard Championship when Albus chose Ron as the thing you’d miss the most. Not only did Albus choose Ron, but you choose him too.”

“I chose him?” said Harry puzzled. He looked at Mr. Weasley, his brow furrowed. “I didn’t choose him. I just got to the bottom of the lake and there he was.”

“You did choose him, didn’t you?” said Mr. Weasley looking intently back at Harry. “Hermione was at the bottom of the lake as well. You got there first, you could have chosen her as the thing you’d miss most but you chose Ron.

“But Dobby said…” Harry said.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Mr. Weasley. “You were still free to choose. Who did you go to first when you saw them at the bottom of the lake?”

Harry’s heart went still. “Ron,” he whispered.

“What is that, my boy,” said Mr. Weasley, “if not a choosing? You could have easily gone to Hermione first. If you had that would surely have indicated that your connection to her was stronger. And you do have a very strong connection with Hermione…I know you couldn’t leave her until the other boy came. But it seems to me that your connection with Ron is stronger. And now that you have performed bond magic that connection is even stronger. By its very nature, bond magic strengths the connections between partners each time it is performed.

Harry leaned against the wall, thinking very hard. The whole time he’d been in the lake, he’d been thinking of Ron. He hadn’t even considered that Hermione and Cho might be in the lake as well. And when he’d found Ron tied to the statue, he’d gone straight for him. It wasn’t until he had Ron in hand that he’d even thought of freeing Hermione. Was Mr. Weasley right? Was that a choosing? He turned his eyes to Ron, who lay on his left side on the bed. It was a closed posture, yet Ron looked open and vulnerable. His right arm was flung behind him and his large hand was palm-up on the bed. Did he have a connection with Ron? Of course he did. He’d been mates with Ron from the day they’d met on the train. It was only later that they’d let Hermione in to make a threesome. And Mr. Weasley was right. The bond magic had made that connection even stronger. He’d felt so connected to Ron that he’d felt like he’d left a part of himself behind when he’d been pulled away. 

“Mr. Weasley?”

“Yes, Harry?”

“If Ron and I have a connection…what kind of connection is it?”

“That, Harry, is for you boys to decide.”

Harry stood for a long time staring at Ron on the bed. Mr. Weasley made no move to lie back down or dismiss Harry. He simply seemed to be waiting for Harry’s next question. His glasses glinted from time to time in the pale room.

“Mr. Weasley,” Harry finally said. “Bill seems to think I’m a danger to Ron.” He stopped and swallowed heavily. He was surprised at how much it had hurt to hear Bill say such a thing. “If that’s so, why do you let me stay friends with Ron? Why do you take me in every year?”

“Let you stay friends with Ron?” Mr. Weasley said, his eyebrows going up. “Harry, that was never my choice. You and Ron were friends from the moment you met and I’ve never regretted it. And we take you in every year because we feel you belong here. Molly and I would have you all summer if Albus would let us. As for being a danger to Ron, it’s not you, Harry. It’s You-Know-Who. He’s a danger to all of us…you just happened to be the one saddled with—”

“With all the rubbish that goes with this scar,” Harry finished for him, swiping his hand angrily across his face as though he could wipe the scar away. 

“Yes,” said Mr. Weasley. “What Bill said…he was being uncharacteristically rash. I’m sorry you had to hear him say that.”

Me too, thought Harry. 

“I’ll be honest with you, Harry,” Mr. Weasley went on. “When I heard that You-Know-Who was back, I did have my moments. It was much, erm, to come to terms with…You-Know-Who is back and my youngest son is standing right next to his target.” The older man took off his glasses and rubbed his hand over his face. He looked weary, as weary as Harry had ever seen him look, sad and oddly frail. “Forgive me Harry, for being so blunt,” he said, scrubbing the corner of one eye with the heel of his hand. “But the instinct to protect one’s child is strong, very strong. I don’t know if I would have gone so far as to pack Ron out of the country, but as I say, I did have my moments. But then, you know what, Harry? I thought of the World Cup.”

“The World Cup?” repeated Harry dully. His head was swimming. It was a nightmare come true. The Weasleys thought he was a danger to Ron…and how could they think otherwise? He felt the dull ache in his heart again and wondered if Mrs. Weasley would mind if he roused her for another chorus of her healing song. 

“Yes, the night after the World Cup,” he heard Mr. Weasley say. “Remember, Harry?”

“Sure.” How could he forget?

“I can’t tell you what it was like to see the Dark Mark again, Harry, after all these years.” Harry looked up to see Mr. Weasley leaning forward again to catch his eyes. “Horrific,” the man said. “Brought everything back in a rush. That’s the only explanation I have for what my colleagues and I did.”

“What do you mean?” asked Harry. He didn’t remember Mr. Weasley doing anything other than try and calm the terrified crowd. 

“Well, we Apparated to the spot and started throwing hexes like bloody fools, didn’t we? In retrospect, I can hardly believe it. Hex first, ask questions later. With thousands of innocents on the scene. It just shows you how unnerved we were. When I saw, Harry, who we were shooting at, my heart nearly stopped. Now when I think about You-Know-Who’s return, I remember that moment and am comforted.”

“Why?” asked Harry, scarcely believing his ears. What on earth was Mr. Weasley getting at?

“Because of you, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley leaning forward even more. “Because of what you did. You grabbed Ron and Hermione and threw them to the ground before they even realized we were there. You saw what was going to happen before it did.”

Harry nodded slowly. Mr. Weasley was right. He had known what was going to happen the moment the first ministry official had Apparated onto the scene. He’d known immediately that he had to get down and get Ron and Hermione down as well. And he remembered feeling like he’d had plenty of time to do it too. In fact, he could see the moment in his mind, as clearly as if he were looking into a Pensieve. Mr. Weasley and his co-workers had seemed to move in slow motion. By the time the first low-flying hex had lifted Harry’s hair, he been on the ground for hours, it seemed, half on top of Ron, with his arm flung around Hermione. 

“Never in all my life have I seen anyone with your instincts and reflexes, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley. “And your instinct wasn’t just to cover yourself, I saw what happened. You flung yourself on top of Ron and managed to get Hermione down too. And since that moment, you’ve gone up against You-Know-Who twice and lived to tell, which is more than anyone else can say. What I’m saying, Harry, is that I trust you. I trust you with my son’s life—and believe me, boy, I’ve had to think about it.”

Harry felt like a block of ice had settled in his stomach. He leaned against the doorjamb. His legs were shaking.

When Harry didn’t speak, Mr. Weasley sighed and sank back on to the cot. He continued to look at Harry. “It’s very unfortunate, Harry,” he said gently. “But you are inexorably a part of this war. You are also inexorably a part of my family. I couldn’t turn my back on you and neither could Molly…and if we did, do you for one moment think Ron would follow?”

Harry finally found his voice. “No,” he said softly.

“Well, if Ron’s in,” said Mr. Weasley, spreading his hands. “We’re all in. We have to be. Molly and I, the rest of the Order…we’ll all do everything we can to make sure no harm comes to you until the moment comes for you to do what you have to do. Only then will you, and the rest of us, be safe.”

“Oh fuck, Arthur,” said Harry. His legs gave out and he slid down the wall to sit on the floor. His face was hot, his eyes burned and his hands shook as he reached up to remove his glasses. Right now he felt like he could tear Voldemort to pieces, but damned if he could look at Mr. Weasley. 

* * *

How long Harry sat in the doorway, he didn’t know. Long enough for his arse to go numb, long enough for a chill to settle over him. He shivered. He was aware of Mr. Weasley again sitting patiently on the cot, waiting for Harry to collect himself. Harry was also aware of Ron’s continued stillness. Harry watched the redhead’s open hand on the ugly orange comforter and willed it to move. A twitching finger would be enough. I hope to God he’s still alive, Harry thought, feeling suddenly like he was channeling Bill.

“Thank for answering my questions, Mr. Weasley,” he said, getting slowly to his feet.

“Arthur,” said Mr. Weasley.

“Pardon?”

“It’s Arthur now, Harry, don’t you think?”

Harry nodded. “Goodnight, Arthur,” he said, the name sounding less strange than he would have imagined. He turned to go.

“Goodnight, son.”

“Oh.” Harry turned back. “I’d do this if I were you.” He pointed his wand at the bed. “Incarcerus.” A thin rope sprang from the tip of his wand and wrapped itself around Ron’s ankle, securing it to the bed frame.

Mr. Weasley’s eyebrows went up. “What in the world?” he asked. 

“In case he decides to go climbing,” Harry said, shrugging. “Charlie’s idea. Dunno if it’ll work. Just seems like a good idea.”

* * *

Hours later, Harry woke from a dead sleep. Something was pricking uncomfortably inside his skull. It wasn’t exactly a headache but it did ache and it was like someone was muttering in his ear. Putting on his glasses, he sat up and glanced around. He was in the twins’ old room, on a narrow bed across from Dean. Dean was sound asleep. Harry was sure the other boy hadn’t been talking in his sleep. He threw back his light covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Something didn’t feel right.

He made for the stairs, feeling a pull toward Ron’s bedroom. When he got to the final landing, he pushed the door open wider. 

The first thing Harry saw was Mr. Weasley sound asleep on the cot. The last time I caught you sleeping on watch, Arthur, he thought, I bit you. Moving further in the room, he saw Ron.

For some reason, Harry wasn’t particularly surprised to find Ron sitting up in bed staring vacantly at his right hand. He wasn’t surprised to see the hand surrounded by a green glow nor was he surprised to hear Ron muttering.

“Blood-traitors, traitor brats, whores and sons of bitches,” Ron said in a strange flat voice. His eyes were wide and empty.

“Shut up, Ron,” said Harry, moving to the bed. His head ached a bit. “You sound like bloody Mrs. Black.”

Ron didn’t look at him but he did shut his mouth. The green glow traveled up his arm to his shoulder.

“Stop it, Ron,” said Harry, sitting on the bed. “You don’t really need to go traipsing out the arsing window tonight, all right, mate? We’ve had enough aggro already.” He put his hand on Ron’s arm and watched as the green glow slowly faded. “That’s better,” he said approvingly. “Now lie down.”

Ron obediently lay down, his body rigid and his open eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“Well, close your eyes,” ordered Harry. “And budge over. Turn on your side. No, face the wall, that’s it.”

When Ron had done as he asked, Harry slipped into the bed and arranged himself behind his friend. “Now go to sleep, mate,” he said sternly. “No arguments.” He wrapped his arm around Ron’s waist and drew their two bodies close together. 

Ron was cold to the touch. His body was as tight as a bow string. Gradually Harry felt him relax. His odd headache receded as Ron’s body grew warm.

“’Night, Harry.” Ron’s voice was so soft, Harry could hardly hear it. But it was Ron’s voice.

“’Night,” he answered, before falling into a deep sleep, confident there would be no more excitement this night.

 

  



	20. Chapter 20

  
Author's notes:

This is a serial, updated about once a week...just a friendly heads-up for people who prefer to read finished pieces.

Betaed by [Brumeux77](http://astele.co.uk/TheQuidditchPitch/Chapter/Details/viewuser.php?uid=1234)

* * *

Harry dreamt of voices in the night.  He heard the shuffling of feet and the flushing of a toilet.  He heard male voices, both low but sharp.  Later, he felt sunlight on his closed eyelids as someone kissed his forehead and touched him gently on the cheek. 

 

* * *

 

Harry rose slowly out of sleep.  He was snug and warm, despite the heavy weight on his chest.  He cracked his eyes open, saw red.  Brilliant red in a bright sun.  _Ron’s hair_ , Harry thought, brushing tickling strands from his mouth and nose.  His hand drifted up to rest on the nape of Ron’s neck.  He slipped his fingers into his mate’s thick mane.  

 

He had fallen asleep curled around Ron.  He had vague memories of shifting through the night.  Every time he’d moved, Ron had followed him.  Harry now lay on his back with Ron sprawled half on top of him.  Ron’s head was on Harry’s chest, his arm curled around Harry’s belly and one of his long legs was tangled with Harry’s.  _This is surprisingly comfortable_ , Harry thought, letting his fingers slide through Ron’s hair.

 

The sun coming in through the window was too bright to be morning light, so Harry judged it was late.  How late he didn’t know.  He did know it was Monday, however.  It was Monday, he’d only been at the Burrow since Friday morning but already so much had happened he felt like it had been years.  _Over the  past three days_ , he thought, absently stroking Ron’s hair, _I’ve seen my best mate run, puke, sulk, dislocate his shoulder, levitate, expose self-inflicted wounds, talk like a potions master and accuse his own mother of infidelity.  I’ve performed a Legilimens I’m not supposed to be able to do on him, shared bond magic with him, seen him cry, learned his family thinks I’m a mortal danger to him and yet his father still trusts me with his life.  I also stopped him from levitating simply by telling him to stop.  The bond I shared with him last night—I never knew such a thing existed and I certainly never expected to wake up in a cuddle with him.  Something’s changed.  But how?  Have we taken our friendship to a deeper level?  Or have we started something new?_

Harry didn’t know the answers to his own questions.  But at the moment, it simply didn’t matter.  _Whatever happens between us_ , he thought, _happens._   _All I know is right now is I’m content and all feels right._   He glanced down at his hand absently carding Ron’s hair.  He twiddled a lock with this fingers, watched it fall in strands.  _Red-gold today_ , he mused.  _Sometimes it looks so orange_.  _And silky…have I ever touched his hair before?  Have I ever touched anyone’s, beside my own…and Bill’s?_

_Bill._

 

Harry sighed, let his hand rest again on Ron’s nape.  _And then there’s Bill,_ he thought. _What I am to make of everything that’s happened with Bill?_  He was a bit clearer on this question.  _What happened was_ , he told himself, _is he flirted with me, was kind to me, tender with me, and I ran with it.  He kept trying to say no and I kept pushing.  Maybe he should have been more adamant but other the other hand, I shouldn’t have used the Prophecy to manipulate him into sex.  And in the attic, I probably caught him at a vulnerable moment_ —it was only now occurring to Harry that Bill _could_ be vulnerable.  _Sure he’s older and always so self-assured but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t get hurt or confused.  Shit._   Harry rolled his eyes at himself _.  Listen to me, I sound like Hermione.  It’s like she’s talking in my head.  Great, I’ve internalized her.  She’ll be thrilled_.

 

Harry lay still a while longer, under Ron’s comfortable weight, staring up at a ceiling he could only fuzzily see. The blurred shapes of the Cannons players swooped in the corner of his eye and he heard the scratching, clicking noises Hedwig made when she groomed herself.  What he didn’t hear was Pig.  _Crazy little git,_ he thought, _maybe he went hunting last night and got lost.  Maybe he’s tangled up in a spider’s web somewhere.  Nah, if that had happened, Hedwig would have gone to fetch him.  They’re kind of like Neville and his Gran, Pig and Hedwig.  She thinks he’s terribly incompetent but he’s really an all right little bloke.  Wonder where he is._

 

As Harry continued to stare up at the ceiling, he gradually became aware of Ron awakening.  He didn’t move, but his body on top of Harry’s suddenly seemed lighter and slightly tense.  

 

“Hey, Ron,” said Harry softly.

 

Ron was silent for a long time.  Finally he mumbled into Harry’s chest, “Fuckerstolmuhdreemz.”

 

It took Harry a moment to translate the thick, slurry words.  _Fuckers stole my dreams_.   _Oh_.  Harry knew what it was like to have his dreams taken away and horrible things put in their place.  He stroked Ron’s hair again before he realized what he was doing.  Once he’d started though, he didn’t particularly want to stop.

 

“S’nice.”  Ron’s voice was hoarse.  He sounded drunk.  “Foot hurts, though.”

 

“That’s because you’re tied to the bed,” said Harry, rubbing Ron’s scalp lightly.  He felt the tension leaving Ron’s body.  “You’re going to have to get off me if you want me to do anything about it.”

 

“Never mind, then,” Ron muttered.  

 

Harry laughed and he felt Ron’s face move against his chest.  _Is he smiling?_ he wondered.  _Does that mean that he’s not freaked to find himself sleeping on me?  He doesn’t seem to be going anywhere, at any rate.  Or maybe he hasn’t realized where he is yet.  That’s a wet patch and he’s drooling.  He might still be out of it._   He continued to rub Ron’s head until his hand slowed on its own.  He was so comfortable and warm, he felt himself fading back into sleep.  

 

He jerked awake when Ron started and sat up suddenly.

 

“Harry?”

 

Harry fumbled on the bedside table for his glasses.  He knocked something to the floor.  It was his wand.  He didn’t remember bringing it with him.  Had someone brought it up for him?  

 

“Harry, wha’ happened?  What’s goin’ on?”  

 

Harry put his glasses on.  Ron’s eyes were darting around his room.  He looked disoriented, a little panicky.

 

“Easy, Ron.”  Harry put his hand on his mate’s shoulder.  “We’re fine.  You’ve just got a head full of the twins’ potion.  Everything’s okay.”

 

Ron’s hair was sticking up in every direction.  His cheek was red from where he’d lain on Harry’s chest, his eyes were blood-shot and swollen.  “Why’s my foot tied?” he asked, tugging weakly against the rope binding his foot to the bed frame.

 

“Ah that.”  Harry groped for his wand.  He quickly banished the rope.  “Ron, we have to talk.”

 

His foot free, Ron fell back against the headboard.  “Talk,” he repeated, scrubbing his eyes.  He sighed and slumped, his long spine bow-shaped.  

 

“Yeah,” said Harry.  He swung his legs to the floor.  “In a minute.  Do you have to piss as bad as I do?”

 

“Worse,” mumbled Ron.  He made no move to rise.  “I gotta ruddy piss hard-on.  See?”  He casually opened his legs, indicating his morning erection.  It was the kind of thing he or Seamus could easily do, with none of the self-consciousness Harry, Dean or Neville would have felt.   

 

Harry cocked his head to look at his friend.  _Well, he certainly doesn’t look like a bloke freaked out by waking up in a cuddle with his best mate._ Ron looked back at him quizzically and Harry had to stop himself from rolling his eyes.  _He does realize things have changed, doesn’t he?  He can’t be that clueless.  Or maybe things haven’t changed for him.  Maybe they’ve just changed for me._  Harry felt a sudden flash of irritation.  _He bloody well better realize things have changed—even if I don’t know exactly how they’ve changed._   “You go first,” he said shortly.  “If you can stand up.”

 

“Sure I can.”  Ron threw him an annoyed look.  But he stumbled climbing over Harry and would have pitched to the floor on his face if Harry hadn’t caught him around the middle.  

“What the fuck?” he said.

 

“Twins’ potion, I imagine,” said Harry.  “You remember much about last night?”

 

“Not after Mum and Dad put me to bed like a bloody baby,” Ron grumbled, letting Harry help him to his feet.  “Oy!  How ’bout not squeezing my bladder!  Thanks mate, I can take it from here.”

 

The moment Ron had wobbled out of the room, Harry heard a commotion at the window.  There was an excited twitter, then Pig buzzed in like an insane bumblebee.  He had so much momentum he had to circle the room a few time before crash-landing on Harry’s knee.  Harry glanced up at Hedwig.  She was watching with a baleful eye.

 

“What do you have there…good lord, don’t have a heart attack, Pig.”  The little owl had hopped to its feet and was proudly holding out its leg for Harry.  Harry could feel its furious heartbeat on his fingers as he untied the message.  “Ron would go mental if you died.”  He absently rubbed Pig’s tiny head as he unfolded the note.  The owl nearly collapsed with pleasure. 

 

_Harry_ , the note began. __

 

The handwriting looked a lot like Ron’s.  Harry quickly flicked his eyes to the signature.  _Bill._   

 

_Harry,_

_Sorry for last night.  Sorry about what I said.  I was an arse.  Dad as much as said so.  He told me to go home for a few days and pull myself together.  I’ll be back when Dumbledore arrives.  Take care of Ron for me ’ til then.  Take care of yourself._

_Bill_

 

_Fucking Weasley men,_ thought Harry, without heat.  He folded the parchment and placed it on the bedside table.  _Bloody pains in the arse._   

 

When Ron came back, Harry took a turn in the bathroom.  Then he joined Ron in the bedroom.  They settled back on Ron’s bed.  Ron, still a little dizzy, leaned against the headboard and Harry sat cross-legged next to him.

 

“So what are we gonna talk about?” asked Ron picking at the spread.  “’Sides me being tied to the bed.”  He looked up in alarm.  “I’m not sleep-walking, am I?”

 

“Well, yes,” said Harry.  “In a manner of speaking.”  He tried to explain the sky-climbing to Ron while Ron stared at him like he had two heads.  Harry had started to wonder if the sleep potion had addled Ron’s brains when Ron finally burst out, “Are you talking about aerialists?  Are you telling me I’ve been doing sodding’ sideshow tricks in my sleep?”

 

“Something like that,” said Harry.  “Only, according to your Dad, sky-climbing’s one of these rarified arts like Occlumency.”  He decided, for now, to pass over Mr. Weasley’s comment about sky-climbing being associated with the dark arts.

 

“What the fuck!”  Ron leapt off the bed and paced the length of the room, which, with his long, stride took about three steps.  He slumped against the wall, then bolted up right again.  “Freakin’ Gerard,” he moaned, running his hand through his hair.  “This is more of his crap!”

 

“I suppose,” said Harry calmly.  “There’s this weird green glow around you when you do it.”

 

“I glow green?” Ron’s mouth flapped a few times.  “Oh man.”  He returned to the bed and flopped on it, putting his head in his hands.

 

“All over,” said Harry.  He supposed he wasn’t being fair.  He’d had time to get used to it.  

 

“Why the fuck would I glow green?”

 

“No one really knows,” admitted Harry. 

 

Ron leapt off the bed again, swearing.  “Ah fuck, ah fuck…freakin’ Gerard, freakin’ fuckin’ tossbag.”  He paced the room again, raking his hands through his hair until Harry thought he looked a bit like he’d been electrocuted.  “Aerialist’s tricks,” he cried, turning an outraged face to Harry.  “If that arsewipe had to leave his crap in my brain, why didn’t he leave something cool.  Fuckin’ sky-climbing…that’s utterly useless.”

 

“It’s no more useless than being a Parselmouth,” offered Harry.  “I got that left in my brain.”  

 

“Fine,” said Ron, spinning on his heel.  “We’re two fucking freaks…just glad we have each other.  Shit!”  He slumped against the wall.     

 

“Ron,” asked Harry.  “You wanna go running?”

 

“Yeah.”  Ron nodded.  “I think that would be good.”

 

“Fine,” said Harry, standing up and approaching his mate.  “But you need to eat first.”

 

“I’m not hungry,” said Ron.  His voice was petulant.  

 

“Too bad,” said Harry firmly.  “I am.  And you,” he poked Ron in the ribs, “need to eat.”

 

“Crikey,” grumbled Ron.  He shoved past Harry on his way to his dresser to get his running things.  “When did _you_ turn into Bill?”

 

 

* * *

 

And it was another weird day at the Burrow.  When they got downstairs, Harry discovered to his shock that it was lunch time.  The infirmary not withstanding, he didn’t think he’d ever slept until lunch before.  He was normally an early riser.  Old habit.  Aunt Petunia had never stood for him having a lie in, not when he could be scrubbing the kitchen floor.  

 

Ron pouted and snarled his way through lunch, shoving his food around his plate until Harry leaned over and gave him a stinging hex on the back of his hand.

 

“Ow!” cried Ron.  “What was that for?”  He put his hand to his mouth and sucked the weal that had risen.

 

Harry shrugged.  “You say Gerard hates pain, right?”

 

“Good idea, Harry,” murmured Hermione.  She was on the other side of the table next to Ginny and Dean.  

 

Ron threw her a dirty look.

 

“It beats cutting,” said Hermione, raising her chin at Ron.

 

Ron looked glowered at her, then at Harry.  “With friends like you…” he muttered.  Yet the hex did seem to do its job.  Ron finally tucked into his lunch and his mood lightened a bit.

 

Mrs. Weasley had turned from the sink when Ron had cried out.  Now she beamed at Harry.  She seemed delighted to find her houseguest hexing her son.  In fact, she’d been positively chirping all through lunch.  When Harry had come downstairs, she’d given him another full body hug— _she practically dipped me_ , thought Harry--and she’d been patting him each time she passed him.  Harry reckoned she was giving him the credit for the last night’s relief—and she had to be relieved that Ron had finally talked, no matter how ugly the words.  And with Dumbledore due to arrive within a day or two, perhaps she was seeing an end in sight.  Harry was also sure the healing songs had done much for her.  _Maybe mothers,_ he mused _, need mother’s magic as much as their children_.

 

Ron ran hard and long.  From his broomstick, Harry watch as his hair, first bright in the sun, darkened with sweat.  Back in the kitchen, Ron gave his mother a supremely slimy hug and actually let her squeeze him back for a moment before darting away.  Then he invited Harry and Hermione down to the pond for swimming.  Since he didn’t bother to put on a bathing costume, Harry and Hermione went down in their shorts and t-shirts too.  They stood on the bank for a moment, watching Ron plunge into the pond in fully dressed.  He didn’t even stop to remove his trainers.

 

“Bill’s gone,” said Hermione the moment Ron’s head sank underwater.  

 

“I know,” said Harry, “he left me a note.  I’m to take care of Ron in his stead.”

 

Hermione looked at him sharply and he wondered again if she’d figured out what he and Bill had been up to.  But when she spoke, her words surprised him.

 

“I think it’s got something to do with Fleur.”

 

“Fleur?”  Harry had forgotten Fleur even existed, let alone that she’d been having some sort of relationship with Bill.

 

“Yes, her.” Hermione’s brow furrowed and she seemed preoccupied.  “I talked to him before he left this morning and he said that she’d been owling him and he needed to write her.  I don’t think she’s quite right for him, do you?”

 

“Urm.”   Harry, quite caught off guard, fumbled.  “Uh—“

 

“She’s so posh,” Hermione went on vehemently.  “What does she want with a houseful of rowdy Weasleys?  Sure, Bill’s a handsome one, but does she really believe she could just swoop down and whisk him away?”  She turned on Harry as if he’d suggested as much.  “Any idiot knows if you take one Weasley, you take them all.  Besides,” she added, tossing her thick curls.  “Molly doesn’t like her.  She as much as told me so.”

 

“Urm.”  Before Harry could formulate any kind of answer, Ron surfaced with a noisy splash.  “Oy,” he called.  “What about you lot coming in?”  He raised a dipping hand to shove the hair from his face and looked uneasily over his shoulder.  “I’m not keen to be in here alone, you know…with that Siren lurking about…she reminds me too much of those creepy Merpeople.”

 

“For heavens sake, Ron,” snorted Hermione, kicking off her shoes and walking into the water.  “It’s not like we even saw the Merpeople.  We were unconscious when they put us in the water.”

 

Harry chucked his shoes and glasses and waded after Hermione.  The bank sloped gently at first.  When he reached the drop-off, the ledge where the ground fell away, Harry stepped off, let the water close over his head. 

 

 When he floated up again, he heard Ron protesting.  “I saw them,” the redhead said.  “They came up with me and Harry, remember?  One slimy bloke surfaced right next to me.”

 

“Oh, right,” said Hermione a little grumpily.  She stroked forward clumsily.

 

Knowing how much Hermione hated being wrong, especially when Ron was right, Harry quickly changed the subject.  “How did they get you down there any way?” he asked swimming over to Ron.  

 

“I don’t know who took us down,” said Hermione, panting from the effort from keeping her head above water.  “Dumbledore explained that we would be asleep until we surfaced.  Then he gave us something to drink and we fell asleep.  I don’t know what was in the potion—“

 

“It was a sleeping draught with a gillyweed base,” Ron said.

 

Hermione snorted again.  “And how would you know such a thing—oh!”  Her face went pink.

 

Ron gave a nasty laugh and dove under again.

 

Harry was surprised that they had quite a decent swim before Ron’s mood started changing.  In the water, the redhead was an otter, if an elongated one.  Having grown up with a pond in his back yard, he swam far better than either Harry, who had never been allowed to swim and if he had would have had to wear one of Dudley’s old bathing costumes which would have undoubtedly floated away leaving him naked; or Hermione, who Harry was deciding didn’t have an athletic bone in her body.  Ron swam circles around them both, brushing them with his sleek body, ducking their heads under water, spitting water at them when they surfaced.  He was a pest, really.  The third time he surged out of the water behind Harry, landing on his back to for a dunking, Harry let himself be driven deep.  He let himself drift downward a moment, looking up to see the blurry paleness of Ron’s kicking feet.  Then he curled and kicked down in a dive.  The pond was surprisingly deep.  His eyes open, his hand stretched out before him fading to gray in the murky water, Harry felt for a bottom.  Finally when his lungs were bursting, he flipped over and headed for the surface.

 

“Bloody hell,” burst out Ron as Harry’s head broke through to air.  “I thought she had you, mate.”  His blue eyes crinkled in the sun.  He looked worried.

 

Harry took a deep breath, laughing.  _Serves you right, brat,_ he thought.  He kicked backwards as Ron swam toward him.  “I couldn’t find the bottom,” he explained, twisting out of his mate’s reach .

 

“Dunno.  Deep,” said Ron, trying again to catch Harry.  “Dad says it used to be a quarry.”

  

Hermione was first to leave the pond.  She waded out, shaking the water from her hair.  Her white shirt clung to her body, transparent in the sun.  Harry could see her brassiere.

 

So could Ron.  He gave a lewd whistle.  “Nice rack, Hermione,” he called.

 

“Piss off, you,” said Hermione.  She picked up her wand and dried herself quickly.  Her hair which hung in dripping loops sprang back up into coils.

 

Harry was still staring at her when he felt Ron’s hands at his waist.  “Hey,” he shouted.  Ron dove and with a quick jerk, stripped Harry of Dudley’s loose cut-offs.  “For shit’s sake,” Harry muttered, annoyed.  He expected Ron to be a total arse and wave his cut-offs in the air for Hermione to see.  Instead Ron surfaced and passed him the shorts back underwater.    

 

“Sorry, mate,” Ron said chagrinned.  “Reflex.  Grew up swimming with Fred and George.”

 

 As Harry took the shorts from Ron, he met his mate’s eyes.  Something curled in his belly.

 

Ron ducked under abruptly.  Harry could see the white-green shadow of his body sliding away, his flashing legs the last to disappear as he dove deep.  He was under quite a while.  When he surfaced, Harry saw that his eyes had changed.  

 

Ron turned and made for the ledge.  He came out of the pond so fast, he threw water all over Hermione.  Harry paddled after him.  

 

Ron walked past Hermione, who turned silently to watch him go.  “Heading back up to the house,” he said shortly.  “Alone.  You two enjoy yourselves.”  

 

“Ron—” Harry started.  

 

“Gimme a break,” snapped Ron, turning back for a moment.  “Charlie’s up there, all right?  He’ll whack me around the head if need be.”  He strode off without looking back.

 

“Phew,” said Hermione as Harry came out of the water and plopped down on the grass next to her.  “Can you imagine—the Weasley have had to live with _that_ for two months.  Molly told me he started behaving oddly in June and then was just horrid all through July.”

 

The afternoon had come on and the sun had dropped lower in the sky.  There was a bit of a chill in the air that hadn’t been there the day before.  Harry wondered if they were in for a bit of rain.  He found his wand on the bank and dried himself off.  

 

He and Hermione chatted and she told him about her trip to <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Bulgaria.  “It was lovely and Viktor was fun,” she said, thoughtfully.  “But I seemed to lose interest in him the moment we left.  Does that sound horrid?”

 

“Not really,” said Harry.  While he couldn’t say he’d lost interest in Bill exactly, the idea of continuing a sexual relationship with him now seemed deeply inappropriate.  _It’s a bit,_ he thought, _like discovering the man you’re having an affair with is your secret brother._   “Things change,” he told Hermione.

 

“Yes,” said Hermione, seeming preoccupied again.  “They do.”  

 

They sat in silence for a moment, Harry playing with a twig he’d found on the ground.  Finally he said, “About the bond magic—do you mind much?”

 

“You mean that it’s you instead of me?” asked Hermione shrewdly.

 

Harry nodded.  

 

Hermione sighed.  “No,” she said.  “I suppose I would have been wildly jealous once.  But that seems to have passed.  I think for Ron too.  Despite his lovely comment about my rack, I just don’t feel any thing from him…any interest, I mean.  I used to feel like he fancied me but I don’t any more.”

 

“Are you angry at Ron?” asked Harry.

 

“No,” said Hermione in surprise.  “Why would you ask such a thing?”

 

“Well, you’re awful hard on him…I mean you always are a bit…but maybe now might be the time—“

 

“To go easier on him?” Hermione finished for him.  “Pfft, don’t be ridiculous, Harry.”  She looked at him, her eyes flashing like Ginny’s.  “That’s exactly what he doesn’t need from me now.  He already feels overpowered and smothered.  Molly’s bad enough but when Bill’s around, you can’t shove a piece of paper between him and Ron.  Can you imagine how much worse it would be if I started simpering at him?  He’d hate me, thinking I pitied him.  And I refuse to pretend that he hasn’t been hurting himself.  It was such a bloody secret in the family when Louise was cutting—oh!”  Hermione put her hand to her heart.  “Harry,” she said, jumping to her feet.

 

“What is it?” asked Harry, wand up and leaping to his feet too.  He looked around.  He had a sudden sense of danger but he didn’t see any thing.

 

“Ron,” said Hermione.  She whirled and started for the house at a quick clip.  “We’ve let him go off alone.  You don’t think he’s cutting himself again, do you?”

 

“Shit!” Harry’s stomach turned over.  He broke into a run.  “Don’t come upstairs,” he yelled back at Hermione.

 

Fortunately no one was in the kitchen so he didn’t have to explain himself as he burst through the back door.  He headed for the stairs and went up quickly and quietly.  On the fifth floor, he listened for a moment at Ron’s door.  Silence.  He entered without knocking.

 

Ron didn’t look up.  He was sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in one hand.  The other hand was out of sight behind him.

 

Harry closed the door.  He felt himself shaking.  “Show me your hand, Ron,” he said brusquely.  

 

Ron didn’t move.  Harry could feel the waves of despair rolling from his mate.

 

“I said show me!” he barked.

 

Ron didn’t look up.  But he brought out his hidden hand and put it on his knee.  He uncurled his fingers and let the knife drop to the floor.  One of his mother’s kitchen knives.  “I didn’t do anything,” he said miserably.  He held up both hands for Harry to see.

 

Harry looked at the knife.  It looked vile, like something that might bite.  He kicked it away from Ron’s bare foot.  “But you wanted to, didn’t you?” he said.

 

Ron nodded.  

 

“Fine,” said Harry.  He went to sit next to his mate on the bed.  “Hold out your hand,” he said.  “Show me your wrist.”

 

Ron raised his eyes to Harry.  They were wet, pink-rimmed and sorrowful.  He offered Harry his wrist.

 

Harry raised his wand and quickly applied a stinging hex.

 

Ron flinched.  But he made no sound nor did he pull back his hand.

 

Harry watched a red weal rise on the tender inside of his mate’s wrist.  “Did that help?” he asked.  

 

Tears were springing to Ron’s eyes.  He nodded.  “Do it again,” he whispered.  

 

Harry was willing to give him one more go.  Quickly he touched Ron’s wrist with his wand.  Another weal rose up beside the first.

 

Ron stared at his wrist.  He let out a long quivering breath.  “Thanks, mate,” he said, looking at Harry again.  He wiped his eyes and sniffed.

 

Harry felt his own eyes sting.  “Oh, Ron,” he said softly.  “I’m so sorry.  I’m sorry I made us go there…to the Department of Mysteries…”

 

“Don’t,” said Ron.  He was still looking at Harry.  “We had to go, didn’t we?  Given what we knew, right?”

 

Harry nodded though he wasn’t quite sure he agreed.

 

“Then there’s nothing for it, now, is there?”

 

Harry shook his head miserably.  How he wished he could erase that night.

 

“Harry,” Ron said.  There was something urgent in his voice.

 

Harry leaned toward Ron.  He closed his eyes.

 

Ron did the rest.  He put his arms lightly around Harry and pulled their bodies together.

 

Harry’s eyes popped open _.  I guess he does know things have changed_ , he thought.  He felt Ron burrow into him, his face in Harry’s neck and his arms about his ribs.  He put his own arms around Ron.  Ron took an unsteady breath and hugged him, so hard, Harry wheezed out his air and thought he’d snap in two.  _First Molly, now_ _Ron,_ he thought.  _One of these days, a Weasley will break my back._   But there was nothing to say, so Harry maneuvered them until he could lean comfortably against the headboard.  Then for a long time, he held Ron in the quiet room, feeling his mate’s body shudder and jerk as sunset burned the window red.


	21. Chapter 21

  
Author's notes:

This is a serial, updated about once a week...just a friendly heads-up for people who prefer to read finished pieces.

Betaed by [Brumeux77](http://astele.co.uk/TheQuidditchPitch/Chapter/Details/viewuser.php?uid=1234)

* * *

On Tuesday morning, Harry woke, still wound up in the ribbons of a sweet dream.  Such dreams came so rarely to Harry; when they did, he could hardly bear to let them go.  But this time it was different.  The dream was fading, but the sweetness remained.  He felt it trickle into his belly, curl up like a living thing.

 

He yawned, but he didn’t try to stretch.  He was disinclined to move because he was warm, comfortable and content.  And because he didn’t want to wake Ron, who, for the second morning in a row, was sprawled on top of him.  _The bed isn’t that small_ , Harry thought.  _He could sleep **next** to me…dunno why he wants to sleep **on** me.  Can’t say I mind, though._   Harry turned his cheek on the pillow.  He was on his belly with the warm weight of Ron’s head on his back, just below his shoulder blades.  Ron’s shoulder pressed down on his spine and his long arm draped over Harry’s ribs.  When Harry glanced to the side, he saw his mate’s right hand dangling over the side of the bed.  

 

Harry squinted at the window.  Even without his glasses, he could see it was early, very early; the morning light was still cold and faintly blue.  He rested his cheek on his folded arms and tried to catch at the strings of his dream; all he could remember was being on a train, going somewhere.  _And I am going somewhere,_ he thought _.  I’m going somewhere at last._

 

And it was true.  Harry was going somewhere and he was only just realizing it.  _For years now_ , he thought.  _I’ve been waiting for my life to start. **My own true life.**   At first, I lived with the Dursleys, well, that wasn’t anyone’s real life…that was just something to escape.  Maybe I thought my real life had begun when Hagrid told me I was a wizard and there was a place saved for me at a special school, but at Hogwarts, I discovered there were things I had to take care of first_.  _Since then,_ he mused, propping his chin on his arm, _I’ve thought when Voldemort’s gone, that’s when it will finally begin—my own real life.  But it’s already begun, hasn’t it? It has—and I’m only just realizing it._

_It must be the bond magic,_ Harry thought _, which, as weird as it sounds, reminds me of what Dumbledore told me about Voldemort.  He said that when Voldemort tried to kill me, he left a part of himself in me.  That’s what’s happened with Ron too—the bond magic put a part of him in me.  Because, for the first time in my life, I don’t feel like an outsider.  For the first time, I feel like I truly belong somewhere…and to someone._

 

It was a lot to take in—no longer the Boy-Who-Lived, but the Boy-Who- _Was_ -Living—so Harry let that slip away.   His thoughts turned instead to his bedmate.  _My relationship with Ron has changed_ , he thought.  _And I have a pretty good idea of **how** it’s changed.  _ He couldn’t help the smile that curved his lips _.  I have a feeling, though, that it’s going to take Ron longer to catch on.  For some reason that doesn’t bother me.  With Bill, I was in such a hurry…so intent on getting what I wanted that I resorted to manipulation.  With Ron, I feel like I can wait.  It makes me happy just to be here…with his head on my back and his arm around me._   _Who knew_ _that being squashed by a Weasley could be so nice?_

 

Lifting his head slightly, Harry reached for his glasses and wand.  With a whispered _Accio,_ he summoned a quill and parchment from a large jumble of books and papers on the other side of the little room.

 

_Dear Bill_ , he wrote.

 

_We made it through the day.  I looked after him like you asked me to.  You were dead right about him being high maintenance.  I’m noticing, though, an ebb and flow to these moods of his.  He wakes up fuzzy from the potion and goes broody fast.  The running straightens him out for a bit before he goes twitchy again.  Yesterday we had a swim and I think the physical activity extended his good mood (though I have to admit he was a bit manic and quite a pain in the arse).  Later, I found him upstairs with a knife.  I stopped him from cutting with the stinging hex we talked about.  Can’t say it was fun, but at least it doesn’t do any real damage.  After supper, we all played football (don’t think anyone wants Ron up on a broom right now).  Again, the physical activity seemed to help him.  After the football, he was all right for a while, then, this is weird, I began to feel his mood changing.  It was subtle, but if I focused I could feel it, a kind of low buzzing in the back of my skull.  I assume I could feel him because of the bond.  Your dad told me that we might feel the connection for hours or even days.  Anyway, that was our evening.  When I felt him getting agitated, I hexed him.  (A bit fucked, but it worked.)  And twice, last night (I slept with him) he woke me up with Gerard dreams.  He was talking his Death Eater crap and beginning the weird glow (he’s not happy about this green business, by the way).  Each time I called him by name and told him to stop.  And he did._

 

_Harry._

_P.S.  Charlie and your dad bashed heads during football.  Your dad broke his nose._

_P.P.S.  Ron knows about the Incarcerus now and why.  I don’t know if he would have climbed or not last night if I hadn’t stopped him._

 

Harry reread his note.  He paused over the part about sleeping with Ron, wondering if it would bother Bill.  A small part of him _wanted_ it to bother Bill.  It still hurt to know that Bill thought he was a danger to Ron, and their last tryst in the attic had left him confused and a bit resentful.  _There’s something…some unfinished business between me and Bill,_ Harry thought, folding his parchment carefully.  _He’s important and he fits into my life…I just don’t know how yet._  

Harry put down the quilland psssted for Hedwig who was on top of the bureau.  The snowy owl turned her head backwards and gave him a look that reminded him of McGonagall.  _If she had an eyebrow,_ he thought, _she would have lifted it_.  He waved the parchment and the owl fluttered immediately to the bed.  She nipped at Harry’s ear and he responded, “I love you too, Hedwig.”  She glared back with her large round eyes, fluffed her feathers and managed a noise that sounded like a tut.  “Well, I do,” he said, tying his letter on her leg.  “And I know you love me, you needn’t act like it’s undignified to say so.  Now take this note to Bill.  You’ll want to hurry up, or Pig will come back and want to go too.”  Hedwig turned and hopped to the edge of the bed, giving him a tail feather in the face as she flapped into the air. __

 

Harry laughed and rested his chin on his arms.  He felt Ron stir slightly.  The redhead murmured something.  Harry reckoned his mate  was on the verge of waking up.  “Go back to sleep, Ron,” he suggested softly.  “It’s too early.”  _I’d like a_ _little more rest,_ he added to himself, _before I have to start dealing with you._

 

Ron stirred and mumbled something about spiders.  

 

“It’s okay,” said Harry, taking a guess.  “Dumbledore will be here soon and he’ll give you back your nice spider dreams.  Now go to sleep.”   

 

Ron’s hand twitched.  “’Kay,” he muttered.  He yawned, his breathing deepened and he relaxed again.

 

Harry slept too, drifting pleasantly in and out of consciousness.  He came fully awake again some time later to find himself on his side with Ron wrapped around him from behind.  Ron had hooked a leg over Harry’s and his arm was under Harry’s head.  _Nice pillow_ , Harry thought, opening his eyes.  His glasses were askew but he wasn’t so blind that he couldn’t see Hedwig perched in front of him with a parchment tied to her leg.  He straightened his glasses and reached for the note.

 

“Whazzit?” croaked Ron.  He sounded marginally awake.

 

“Note from Bill,” answered Harry.  He unrolled the parchment.  “He says ‘thanks for the update and that Charlie always had a bloody hard head.’” 

 

“Too right,” mumbled Ron.  

 

Harry could feel his mate falling back asleep.  “Hey, Ron,” he said.

 

Ron grunted.

 

“Put your hand on top of mine.”  Harry curled his fingers around his wand.    

 

“Hmmm?  Right.” Ron’s arm rolled under Harry head.  Harry felt his friend’s warm hand close over his own.  

 

Harry glanced around the room.  In the corner was Ron’s usual untidy pile of school things—books, parchment, clothes, his Gryffindor scarf.  Under a crumpled robe, Harry saw a corner of a Martin Miggs comic.  “I want you to summon a comic book with me, okay?  Okay?  Ron?”  He elbowed his mate.

 

“Ow, stoppit,” Ron said crossly.  “’M asleep.”

 

“You’re awake enough to summon a comic.”

 

“Am not.”   

 

“Just do it,” coaxed Harry.

 

“Nuh uh.”  

 

“ _Ron—_ ”

 

“Bugger.”   

 

Harry gripped the wand.  He felt Ron’s fingers tighten slightly on his.  “ _Accio_ ,” he said and heard Ron say it too.  The comic book zipped toward them, flopped on the bed inches from Harry’s nose.

 

Harry rolled to look at Ron.  “You weren’t trying,” he accused.  “That was all me.”

 

Ron looked blearily at him.  “Said I was sleepin’” he complained.  “Besides, don’t wanna, you know, get Gerard cooties on you.”  He closed his eyes.

 

“You won’t get Gerard on me,” said Harry impatiently.  “Now look, there’s another comic book right under the first one.  I can just see the corner.  I want you to summon with me.  And _this time_ put a little effort into it, right?”

 

Ron sighed.  “’Kay, Hermione,” he said.  

 

Ron didn’t open his eyes but Harry saw his brow furrow slightly.  Then he felt it—warmth traveling up his arm the same way it had the day he bought his wand in Olivander’s shop.  The tingle of magic.  “ _Accio comic,”_ he said, still looking at Ron.

 

_WHUMP!_   

 

Harry turned just in time to see the whole pile of books, papers and school clothes explode into the air.  Books flew everywhere; parchment crackled and went up like a flock of noisy birds.  And a huge stack of comics—Harry hadn’t realized there were so many—rose up, tilted and sprang toward them like an accordion unfolding 

 

“Oi!” yelled Harry.   He put up his arm to deflect the first comic but the second and the third smacked him in the head.  Then for several moments, comics rained down on them until Harry, who was taking the brunt, was nearly buried.

 

“Ow.” Ron grunted as a thick stack of comics landed on his face.  He shook his head, throwing off the comics and rose to his elbows.  “I’m awake now,” he said.

 

Harry sat up.  There were comics everywhere, on the floor, strewn across the bed, covering him from his lap to his toes.  The brightly colored pages fluttered on his lap; Martin Miggs’s face goggled at him from every angle.  Harry laughed.  His whole arm tingled and he felt as though a balloon were inflating in his chest.  “How many Martin Miggs do you have?”  He gave Ron a loopy grin.

 

“Loads,” said Ron, gazing stupidly at the pile of comics sliding here and there on the bed and to the floor.  “I collected for years…never had the heart to throw them away.”  He shook his head, trying to try throw off the dizziness left over from the twins’ potion.  He didn’t seem to feel any of Harry’s giddiness.  “Harry,” he said looking glumly at his friend.  “Tell me I didn’t, erm, glow green last night.”

 

“Only a little,” said Harry apologetically.  “Twice.”

 

“Bugger! Fuck!”  Ron collapsed back to the bed.  After a moment, he curled on his side and pushed comics aside to make a place for his head in Harry’s lap.  “I hate Gerard,” he said.

 

“He’s scum,” agreed Harry.  “You really stepped in the poo when you summoned him.”  He put his hand on Ron’s hair.  “Comfy, mate?” he asked amused by the disgruntled look on Ron’s face.

 

“Yeah,” said Ron, sighing and closing his eyes.  “’Cept I’ve a bit of comic stuck in my ear.”

 

Harry laughed.  He lifted Ron’s head and swept the comics from his lap before letting Ron’s head bounce back into his lap.  “There,” he said.  “Better?”  When Ron merely grunted, Harry laughed again, feeling almost dizzy with happiness.  He touched Ron’s cheek; it was warm from sleep.  “Dumbledore will be tomorrow night, mate,” he said softly.  “I promise you he will know what to do.”  

 

“Right.”  Ron opened his eyes.  “I’m not exactly looking forward to that either.  I don’t really want him in my head, Harry.  It’s nasty in there.  Really nasty.”

 

“You have nothing to be ashamed of, Ron,” said Harry firmly.

 

“Maybe not,” said Ron, picking at Harry’s pajama leg.  “All the same, I wish you could do it.  I know I went a bit mental the first time you, you know, had a look…but now that I’ve gotten used to the idea, it seems all right…you in my head.  Feels sorta like you belong there…whereas Dumbledore, he’s good , sure, but he doesn’t really belong in my head any more than Gerard does.”

 

“I wish I could, Ron,” said Harry.  He absently curled a lock of hair behind his mate’s ear.  “But it’s just too dangerous.  I’d need training.”

 

“See, that’s another thing,” said Ron, slowly.  He found a thread on Harry’s pajamas to pull.  “I don’t like the idea of you training…because you’d be training on other people, right?”

 

“I suppose,” said Harry, scratching lightly behind Ron’s ear.

 

“Well, what if you got into someone else’s head and decided you liked him better than me?”

 

Harry went still.  “Are you having me on, Ron?” he asked.

 

“No,” said Ron.  He shoved himself up and fell back against the headboard.  “It’s me, Harry, remember?  The idiot who got his knickers in wad because your name came out of the Goblet.” 

 

Harry couldn’t believe what he was hearing.  “Mate,” he said emphatically, “for crying out loud, find something else to worry about.  Last time I practiced with Snape, remember?  Malfoy will have Hagrid’s babies  before I like him more than you.”  He leaned back against the headboard next to Ron, their shoulders touching.  “Besides,” he went on, deciding to tell the truth.  “There’s no one in the world more important to me than you.” He looked at Ron who wouldn’t meet his eyes.  “You know that, don’t you, Ron?”

 

Ron shook his head slightly.

 

“It’s true,” said Harry, earnestly, putting his hand on Ron’s forearm.  

 

Ron took a deep breath.  When he let it out, he slumped a little against Harry’s shoulder.  “Thanks, mate,” he whispered.  

 

 

* * *

 

Tuesday pretty much followed Monday’s pattern, only they’d gotten an earlier start and had a longer day to contend with.  After his run, Ron shook his sweaty hair at Ginny and horsed around with Dean, Charlie and Dean’s football.  Dean was giving pointers, showing them proper dribbling and trapping.  Ron caught on quickly to headers in particular.  Soon he was able to send the ball in anywhere he wanted, including into the back of Charlie’s head.

 

“Ow!”  Charlie rubbed his head and rounded on Ron.  Ron tried to twist away but Charlie caught him by the back of the shirt.  “If you’re after another drubbing, Ron,” said the big wizard, “just say the word.”  

 

Ron stepped backwards onto Charlie’s foot and at the same time, elbowed his brother in the ribs.  He was laughing as Charlie tackled him to the ground and fell on top of him, but Harry couldn’t help but worry.  He thought his mate looked a tad frail for a squashing, especially when it was thirteen-stone Charlie doing the squashing.  He decided not to say anything, however, for fear of sounding like a mother hen—or Bill. He watched for a moment as the brothers wrestled about on the grass.  He knew rough play was nothing new in the Weasley house.  But when Charlie plopped himself heavily on Ron’s midriff and started tickling him before he could catch his breath, Harry had had enough.  He strode over and kicked Charlie hard in the shins.

 

“Hey!” shouted Charlie.  He looked up at Harry in surprise.

 

“Get off of him, Charlie,” Harry said, glaring at the older wizard.  “He’s had enough, right?”

 

Charlie’s eyebrows went up.  “Well, well,” he said, “look at little Harry.”  Swatting aside a blow from Ron,  he broke into a grin.  “Little Harry,” he repeated, “showing me his claws.”  Charlie leapt to his feet, caught Harry in a one-armed hug and ruffled his hair.  “All right, mate,” he said, laughing.  “He’s all yours.”  The big wizard chuckled as he headed back to the house.  “All yours.”

 

Ron lay panting on the ground.  “Red card,” he gasped weakly.

 

 

Harry didn’t follow Ron upstairs when the redhead announced he was having a shower.  Hermione raised her eyebrows but Harry shook his head at her.  He hadn’t told her yet about the buzz in his head.  Monday night, he’d seen her catch him stinging Ron even though he’d tried to do it as inconspicuously as possible.  He and Ron had it worked out between them—a quick sting in the palm of the hand every twenty minutes or so was enough to keep Ron away from the cutlery.  They’d done it without words or signals.  Whenever Harry had felt the subtle scratchy hum in the back of his head, he’d put his wand under the kitchen table or to the side of the chess set and found Ron’s open hand already there.  

 

When Ron came back downstairs after his shower, Mrs. Weasley asked to be allowed to reapply the twins’ poultice.  Watching her, Harry suddenly remembered he hadn’t seen the twins since Sunday night.  _I must have been pretty pre-occupied not to have noticed the twins missing_ , he thought.

 

“Where are Fred and George?”

 

“Oh, they’re at work,” said Mrs. Weasley, slapping on poultice and binding Ron’s sores quicker than Harry would have thought possible.  “Didn’t we tell you?  They have a store in Diagon Alley and are doing a right smart business.  We’ll take you round when we pick up school things.”  She shook her head.  “I’d sure like to know where those two found the money for start-up.”

 

Harry blinked innocently at her.

 

By the time Mrs. Weasley had finished with the poultice, Harry was beginning to feel the first prickles in the back of his skull.  He looked at Ron.  The redhead sat motionless at the kitchen table, staring blankly into space.

 

_Wonder what he’s seeing,_ thought Harry, remembering with an inward shudder the melting faces he’d glimpsed when he’d performed the Legilimens on Ron.    

 

Mrs. Weasley was putting away the poultice when Ron stood abruptly.  “Thanks, Mum,” he muttered.  He was halfway up the stairs before Mrs. Weasley could answer.

 

“I’ll go after him, Molly,” said Harry.

 

“Thank you, dear,” murmured Mrs. Weasley.  She put her hand to her heart.  “Gave me a bit of a turn that time.  His moods change so fast.  Oh, Harry”—she looked wetly at Harry—“I just don’t know what we would do without you.”  

 

Harry was glad Mrs. Weasley had glass jars in both hands.  Otherwise she probably would have snatched him up again in another one of her spine-cracking hugs.

 

Harry ran up the stairs, noticing the pricks and buzzes in his head increasing as he got closer to Ron’s room.  When he pushed open the door, he saw Ron sitting on the edge of the bed raking his hands through his hair.  The redhead had one knee bouncing.  Harry went quickly to the bed to sit beside his mate.

 

“How ’bout here?” he asked, pushing up Ron’s sleeve and pointing with his wand to the inside of Ron’s elbow.

 

“Sorry, Harry,” said Ron.  He wouldn’t meet Harry’s eye and his face was going pink.

 

Harry quickly applied the sting.  “Forget it,” he said, feeling the buzz recede.  “It’s not like I haven’t hexed you before—loads of time.  Besides, what makes you think I don’t like it?”  

 

Ron gave a grim laugh.  “Right…how about another then?” he said.  “Maybe on the other side?”

 

Harry nodded.  He watched as Ron pushed up his other sleeve.  He stung the tender flesh as quickly as he could.

 

Ron heaved a sigh of relief.  Harry did too.  The buzzing in his head was gone.

 

They passed a few hours in Ron’s room.  They started reading the Martin Miggs comics that still lay on and around the bed.  Harry couldn’t help laughing.  Whoever drew the comics obviously shared Mr. Weasley’s fascination with Muggle ingenuity in a world without magic.  Martin was an inventor who built machines that cooked his breakfast, washed his dishes, brushed his teeth and combed his hair.  Harry’s favorite was the glove-and-roller-skate contraption that zipped to the door to fetch the mail.  And Martin had plugs everywhere.  Even one for his socks.  

 

“Why on earth does he need plugs for his socks?” Harry wondered.

 

Ron looked over.  “Oh, he uses plugs to warm his socks,” he explained.  “He can’t perform a warming charm, can he, when his feet are cold?”

 

“Oh,” said Harry.  “He could always pop his socks in the dryer.”

 

“What’s a dryer?” asked Ron.

 

“One of these days, mate,” said Harry, giving Ron’s shoulder—the uninjured one—a friendly shake, “I’m going to take you to Muggle Land.  You’ll love it.”

 

“Well, erm, all right, then.”  Ron looked at Harry like he thought Harry had lost his mind.

 

* * *

 

After lunch, Ron invited Harry and Hermione to have another swim.  This time, Hermione ran upstairs first to change into her costume, and, apparently not wanting any more comments about her “rack,” she added a dark t-shirt.  _Great,_ thought Harry.  _Now I have two mates covering up with t-shirts.  At least Hermione’s not insisting on long-sleeves._   They walked to the pond in silence.  

 

Ron managed to unwind Mrs. Weasley’s bandages without removing his t-shirt.  He tossed them on the bank, and, this time, kicked off his trainers before running into the water.  Harry and Hermione followed.  Ron left them and swam hard under the water with strong and graceful strokes.  His white t-shirt was a pale streak in the dark water; his arms and legs made great wide sweeps.  

 

Hermione seemed preoccupied again.  She didn’t talk much and when Harry mentioned he’d had an owl from Bill, she looked suddenly alert.  Harry wondered again if she’d figured out what he and Bill had been up to.

 

“What did he say?” she demanded.

 

“Just a short note,” answered Harry.  “Saying Charlie always had a hard head.”

 

Hermione frowned.  “Whatever for?”

 

“Charlie broke Arthur’s nose last night,” said Harry look at her, surprised.  Hermione rarely missed anything.  “Weren’t you in the kitchen when Molly fixed it?  You were…I remember you tutting at Charlie.”

 

“I don’t tut,” said Hermione sniffily.  “I just thought it a bit ridiculous that someone as large as Charlie would play so rough against his father.”

 

“Arthur was playing rough too,” said Harry, remembering Arthur’s bony shoulder catching him sharply under the chin and snapping his head back.  Of course Arthur had stopped the game to apologize to Harry and apply healing spells to his chin and the back of his neck.

 

“Did he mention Fleur?” asked Hermione.  She was panting a bit as she treaded water.  

 

“Arthur?”  Harry frowned.

 

“No,” said Hermione shortly.  “Bill.”

 

“No,” said Harry surprised again.  “Not a word about Fleur.”

 

“Ginny’s afraid Bill will bring Fleur to the Burrow,” said Hermione grimly.  “She doesn’t like Fleur.  Says when she’s here, everything has to revolve around her.”

 

Harry shrugged.  He didn’t have a problem with Fleur.  In fact when Hermione wasn’t bringing her up, he forgot there was a Fleur.  He had something else on his mind, however, so he decided he might as well bring it up to Hermione.

 

“Hermione,” he began.  Just then a blurred shape popped to the surface on the far side of the pond.  “Uh, I’m assuming that’s Ron,” he said, pointing to the figure, “and not the Siren.”

 

“That’s Ron,” said Hermione trying to float on her back.  “I don’t believe there is a Siren.  I think the Weasleys are having us on.”  

 

“Hermione,” Harry tried again.  “I think Ron’s gotten worse since I’ve been here.”  He watched as the blurred shape disappeared under the water again.

 

“Worse?” said Hermione.  She was close enough that Harry could see her frown.  “How?  Going on what I’ve heard from Molly, Ginny and Bill, he’s been like this all summer.  Broody, nasty…and he’s obviously been cutting a while.”

 

“Yes,” said Harry.  He studied the surface of the water, gazing at the place he assumed Ron would be if he were swimming back toward them.  “But he hadn’t flung himself off any brooms…and he didn’t start climbing until after I arrived.”

 

“Hmm,” said Hermione, looking suddenly intrigued.  Harry knew how she loved to chew over a problem.  “I hadn’t thought of it,” she finally said.  “But it does make sense.  Ron told you he’d been hanging on until you arrived, right?”

 

Harry nodded.

 

“Well, you’re here now, Harry,” said Hermione.  “So he doesn’t have to hang on any more, does he?  He doesn’t have to keep these terrible things inside anymore.  He can let it out, basically go berserk.  It’s because you’re here, Harry,” she went on.  “Ron trusts you and knows you’ll take care of him.”

 

Harry stared at her with his mouth open.

 

“Oh, Harry,” said Hermione gently.  “You’re so thick sometimes.  Sometimes when something terrible happens, you have to wait until you feel safe before you can deal with it, right?”

 

_Right,_ thought Harry, remembering his fit of weeping in the garden with Bill.  At the Dursleys’s, he’d pushed away thoughts of Sirius, afraid they’d drive him mad if he let them in.  It wasn’t until he arrived at the Burrow that he felt safe enough to grieve.

 

“Why do you think Ron waited until you were here to tell his family about Gerard?” Hermione was saying.  “Heaven knows they’d been trying to make him to talk for months.  He wouldn’t even tell Bill.  Then you arrived and had the story from him within two days.   Don’t you see, Harry, you’re the one who makes him feel safe.”

 

Harry was about to respond when Ron surfaced with a noisy splash right at his elbow. Harry yelped in surprise, which seemed to please Ron.  The redhead snickered, then flipped underwater again.  At the same time, Harry felt the itching start in the back of his skull.

 

He wasn’t surprised when Ron surfaced and abruptly left the water.  Neither he nor Hermione lingered at the pond.  They paused long enough to dry themselves off with quick spells, then followed Ron back to the Burrow, trotting to keep up with his long-legged strides.  In the kitchen, Ron headed briskly toward the stairs, passing Charlie who was resting one hip against the counter while he watched a knife chop vegetables.  Charlie’s eyes followed his brother, then he glanced over at Harry and nodded.  Harry saw Mrs. Weasley had paused, wand raised over a bubbling pot.  She too nodded at Harry, smiling weakly.

 

Harry lunged up the stairs after Ron, stepping over the puddles of water his friend had left on the stairs.  The buzz was suddenly loud in Harry’s ears and his head hurt.  He reached the fifth floor and was about to open the door to the bedroom when it flung open on its own and Ron jerked him into the room.  

 

“Aw, fuck, Harry,” groaned the redhead said, breathing hard.  “Think I waited too long.”  

 

Harry froze at the sight of his mate.  Ron was still wearing his wet jeans shorts but he’d chunked his long sleeved t-shirt and hadn’t yet found a dry one to put on.  With his hair hanging wet and his chest bare, he looked too thin.  Harry could see his collarbone jutting through his skin and his long shoulders looked knobby.  The one shoulder was swollen and red.  The cuts, though much improved by the twins’ poultice, still stood out, nasty reminders of what Ron had done to himself.

 

“Where do you want it?” Harry asked.  He pushed aside his dismay and pulled his wand.  “Wrist?”

 

“No,” said Ron harshly.  “Waited too long.”  He raked one hand through his hair, flushed and panting.  “Gotta do it somewhere that hurts more, right?  And, Harry?  Gotta do it fast.”  He spun away, too agitated to stand still.

 

“Wait,” commanded Harry.  He grabbed Ron roughly by the arm, purposely choosing the injured arm and shoulder.  He saw Ron flinch.  Harry’s head was throbbing now; there were spots dancing in front of his eyes.  He pushed Ron against the wall.  “Be still,” he ordered.

 

Ron nodded.  He closed his eyes and leaned shivering against the wall.  

 

From his experience with Bill, Harry knew of a surprisingly sensitive place on his own body.  Before he could change his mind, he lifted his wand quickly and stung Ron quickly on his right nipple.

 

Ron’s eyes flew open.  He made a small noise and put his hand over his chest.  Harry waited.  

 

“Shiiiiiiit,” Ron finally hissed between his teeth.  “That.  Fucking.  Hurt.”  He let himself slide down the wall to a sitting position.

 

Harry followed him down and knelt in front of him. He felt his headache inch back bit by bit.  “Better, Ron?” he asked.  

 

Ron nodded.  “Thanks,” he said, leaning his forehead against Harry’s.

 

Harry put his hands on Ron’s shoulders and rested his forehead against Ron, waiting for his head to stop hurting.  He could see the raised red mark on Ron’s chest between his friend’s fingers.  The sight of it made him vaguely ill.  “Ron,” he said. “I want you to try something else.”

 

“Sure,” murmured Ron, a little stunned from the sting.

 

Harry stood, pulled Ron over to the bed and pushed him down on it.  “Lay back, willya?”  He quickly dried his friend’s jeans.

 

Ron obediently lay back   His hand was still on his chest and he was watching Harry a bit anxiously.  “Urm, whatter we doin’?” he asked.

 

Harry sat down on the bed next to Ron.   “I want you to do that thing,” he said.  Your mother’s song.  Greensleeves.”

 

“Harry,” Ron’s voice rose, tinged with panic for some reason.  “I told you, I don’t sing.”

 

“You don’t have to!” said Harry, his own voice rising.  He felt the pain stab suddenly in his head.  “Just hum it like you did before.”  He curled his hand over Ron’s hand.  

 

“No!” cried Ron, sitting up suddenly.  “I don’t want to bond, Harry!  I didn’t want to this morning!  I just did it because you wanted to…I didn’t want to tell you.”  He grabbed Harry’s shirt and pulled him close.  “I don’t want you to touch me like that,” he said, distraught.  “You know…inside.  I feel so dirty, like absolute filth…in here,” he stabbed a finger at his temple.  “And here,” he put his hand on his chest.

 

“You are not dirty—” Harry began.

 

“All right,” yelled Ron.  “It’s not me.  It’s him…but he’s in me and I don’t want get him on you!  I don’t want him using me to touch you!”

 

“Calm down, Ron,” hissed Harry.  His head was throbbing steadily now and it occurred to him that if he didn’t know what he and Ron were on about, the conversation would have sounded mad to him.  “And stop shouting, for shit’s sake.  Do you want your mum up here?”  

 

“No!” said Ron appalled.  

 

“All right, then,” said Harry, “listen to me.”  He put a hand on Ron’s bare shoulder.  “And look at me, okay?  First,” he touched Ron’s sternum lightly, “there’s nothing dirty here at all.  When we bonded—both times—I didn’t feel him at all.  I felt only you.  And secondly, I wasn’t going to ask you to bond.  I just wanted you to use your family’s healing song…to see if it would help.  Because,” Harry squeezed Ron’s shoulder, “I don’t like stinging you, mate…especially like that.”  He gestured at the ugly mark on Ron’s chest.  

 

“Sorry, Harry,” said Ron, looking ashamed.  “The song?  Dunno if it’ll help…but if you want, I’ll try.”  He took a breath and tried to hum.  The sound died out rough and scratchy in his throat.

 

“Like this,” Harry said.  He started humming, aware he was mangling the tune.

 

Ron laughed harshly.  “Shit, you are off-key,” he said.  He took over for Harry, his throaty hum skimming lightly over the notes.  

 

Harry nodded.  “Close your eyes,” he whispered.  When Ron did, Harry pushed him backward on to the bed.  “Budge over,” he said, his voice a whisper again.  “No…keep singing.”

 

“Not singing,” objected Ron softly, but he picked up the tune again.

 

Harry’s head was aching so badly now that he needed to lie down too.  He stretched out carefully beside Ron and laid his head on his friend’s chest.  “Keep humming,” he said.  “I like the vibrations.”  

 

Ron wrapped his arms around Harry.  He hummed the song over and over in a loop until he was finally singing the words in his low lovely voice.  Harry felt his head gradually stop aching and his eyelids grow heavy.  His breathing deepened and Ron’s arms, around him, were warm and loose and bare.

 

A quiet knock on the door woke Harry some time later.  He was disinclined to move as he was snug, comfortable and content.

 

“Harry?”  It was Hermione, her voice quiet, cautious.  “Molly wants you two down for dinner.”

 

Harry opened his eyes.  He was on his side facing Ron, who was on his side too.  Ron’s arm was flung over Harry and their faces were so close they could have kissed.


	22. Chapter 22

  
Author's notes:

This is a serial, updated about once a week...just a friendly heads-up for people who prefer to read finished pieces.

Betaed by [Brumeux77](http://astele.co.uk/TheQuidditchPitch/Chapter/Details/viewuser.php?uid=1234)

* * *

“Harry?”

 

Harry opened his eyes.  He was on his side facing Ron, who was on his side too.  Ron’s hand was curled over Harry’s wrist and their faces were so close they could have kissed.  A dream-like contentment washed over Harry.  _I should kiss him,_ he thought.  _I should_.

 

“Harry?  Urm, Molly wants you two down for dinner.”

 

Harry jerked his head up, suddenly fully awake.  He could see Hermione’s fuzzy shape at the door.  He rolled quickly on top of Ron, knowing his mate wouldn’t want Hermione to see him without a shirt, particularly when his arms and chest were scored with self-inflicted wounds.  And Harry didn’t particularly want her to see what he had done to Ron himself.  He’d had a glimpse of the right nipple before he’d covered Ron.  It was still inflamed, with a puffy weal that reached up to his collarbone.    

 

Ron stirred but he didn’t wake.  He shifted to his to back and settled with his arms loosely around Harry.  

 

Hermione was already backing out of the room.  “I’ll tell her you’ll be down.”

 

“Thanks,” Harry croaked.  He found his glasses on the pillow.  They were horribly bent; he put them on anyway.  Pushing himself up on one arm, he looked down at Ron.  The redhead’s face was turned to one side.  He looked relaxed and he was breathing easily.   _Sleeping peacefully,_ thought Harry _, without the twins’ potion_. _Seems a shame to wake him.  But if I don’t and he wakes up at_ _midnight_ _, he’ll be hell to put back to bed._ Harry rolled his eyes.  _Sounds like I’m talking about a ruddy baby._   He ran his fingers gently through Ron’s hair, sweeping the too-long fringe from his eyes.  He sighed.  _Either way, he’ll be a bitch to handle…he’s so wound up about Dumbledore coming._

 

Harry sighed and pulled away from Ron, flopping to his back.  Ron frowned.  He shifted about the bed until he found Harry and nuzzled into his side.  Harry snickered and patted his friend’s head fondly.  _I’ve got a bloody shadow_ , he thought.  As an experiment, he scooted to the far edge of the bed, putting space between his body and Ron’s.  Ron grunted.  His long arm shot out and he jerked Harry back.  He squirmed, draping most of himself over Harry.    

 

Harry laughed.  Waking up with Ron made him feel stupidly happy.  He stroked Ron’s head which lay on his chest.  “For a shadow, mate,” he said, “you’re dead heavy.  And how is it that you always wind up on my bladder?”  He lifted Ron’s head gently and tried to slip out from under him.  Ron murmured; his hand tightened on Harry’s hip.  “It’s okay,” Harry said softly.  “Just going to the loo…you’ll be all right.”

 

“’Kay,” muttered Ron, transferring even more of his weight onto Harry.  “Lezzgo.  Loo.”

 

Harry laughed.  “Thanks, mate.  But I think I can go by myself.”

 

Ron’s face scrunched.  He opened one eye half-way.  The other was stuck closed with dried sleep.  “Heya, Harry,” he said hoarsely.  “W’s’goin’ on?”

 

“I’d like to piss…if you’ll get off me,” said Harry.  “Then your mum wants us down for dinner.”

 

Ron finally seemed to notice he had Harry pinned.  “Sorry,” he said, rolling to the side.  He blinked sleepily, picking at his eye.  “How’s the head?”

 

“Head?”

 

“Your head hurt, remember?  You made me, you know…”  Ron gestured.  “Do Mum’s song.”

 

“Oh,” said Harry.  “The head’s fine.  How ’bout you?”  He stole a glance at the red mark on Ron’s chest.  “Hungry?”

 

“Dunno,” said Ron.  He put his hand over his chest and yawned hugely.  “Time mizit?”

 

Harry shrugged.  “Dinner time.”

 

Ron nodded.  He gazed blearily at Harry for a moment, then reached out and straightened his glasses.  “Lop-sided,” he said.

 

“Bent,” said Harry, taking them off.  “I think I slept on them.”

 

Ron did a double-take.    “Wow,” he said, his eyes wide.

 

“What?”  Harry put his glasses back on so he could see Ron.  “What?”  

 

“Your eyes,” said Ron, his face right in Harry’s.  “They’re really really…erm, green.”

 

Harry laughed.  “They’ve always been green, you nutter,” he said.

 

“No,” said Ron, still staring.  “Really green.  Green, like—” he lunged for a Martin Miggs comic that lay at the end of the bed.  “Like this.”  He stabbed his finger at a brightly colored panel.

 

Harry glanced at the comic.  Martin sped through a supermarket in a little cart with a long trailing plug; he was buying produce.  Harry turned back to Ron with his eyebrows raised.  “My eyes are green like broccoli?  Lettuce?” he asked.

 

Ron looked back down at the comic.  “More like the avocado,” he said.  

 

Harry shook his head.  “You’re barking.”

 

“Maybe,” said Ron.  He clambered over Harry on his way out of bed.  “But your eyes are still really green.  I just never noticed—ew —” He’d picked up his chilly, still wet shirt from the floor and started to put it on.

 

Harry laughed again.  _Eyes like an avocado, that’s one for the books_.  Bemused, he watched Ron, disheveled, half-dressed, slip and slide clumsily on the comics strewn across the floor as he made his way over to his dresser.  _There’s something terribly sweet and vulnerable about him,_ Harry thought.  _And every time I wake up with him I feel like we’ve moved closer to the brink of something…love?_ His heart suddenly contracted so hard he gasped.  He ducked his head to hide his stinging eyes.

 

“Fuck.”  Ron, oblivious, was digging through his drawers, tossing shirts left and right.  They landed on comics, school books, parchment, robes.  _Wow,_ thought Harry.  _We really made a mess when we tried to summon a single comic book.  Bond magic must take practice and refinement.  I’ll have to ask Arthur._

 

Ron finally chose a long-sleeved shirt with red, orange and blue stripes.  Harry shook his head.  Ron had a lot of ugly shirts, but this one had to be a prize winner.

 

“That shirt,” said Harry, taking off his glasses and repairing them with his wand, “needs to have an accident.”  He watched Ron struggle with to get it on.  “Not to mention it’s too small.”

 

Ron stuck his tongue out at Harry and tried to get one wide shoulder into the shirt.  He swore as he got stuck with his arms up and his face covered.  

 

Harry started to snicker but stopped when he got a good look at Ron’s bare torso.  The tentacle scars wound up his friend’s arms in coils; they crossed his chest and etched delicate lines on his throat.  _They’re almost pretty,_ Harry thought with a shiver.  _Like the very palest of tattoos._   The cuts, on the other hand, were dark purple slashes—painful to look at.  _Those will heal,_ thought Harry.  _As will that_.  His eyes moved to the red wound he’d left on Ron’s nipple and he winced.  

 

* * *

 

Ron, as Harry had predicted, was a perfect pain in the arse that evening.  He was cranky and sulky at dinner, and at the same time, manic.  He squirmed on the bench, jiggling his knee so furiously he made the whole table rattle.  The rough game of football afterwards, with Charlie, Arthur, Ginny and Dean, failed to settle him.  And he didn’t bother with subtlety when getting his stinging fixes from Harry.  He simply offered a wrist and said, “hit me, mate.”  His anxiety was so palpable Harry had to wonder if the others were feeling it.  By eight o’clock, his own skull crackled and pounded.  

 

Hermione, who had been sitting on the grass outside, skimming a Transfiguration book Harry was sure she’d read often enough to recite, followed him into the kitchen when he went to look for a potion for his head.

 

“Harry,” she said, tentatively, “I could help, you know.”

 

“Thanks, Hermione,” Harry said absently.  “Molly’s got this potion…somewhere—” he rooted among the vials and bottles “—that’s brilliant for headaches…the non-scar kind,” he added, shooting her a little grin.

 

“Not that,” said Hermione, looking anxiously at him.  “I meant with Ron…he’s taking a lot out of you, isn’t he?  He seems far worse than last night.”

 

“Yeah,” said Harry, finally finding the vial he wanted.  “He’s upset about this thing with Dumbledore.  Doesn’t want him in his head, but can’t see any way around it.”

 

“Right.” Hermione spoke in her quick, breathless way.  “I know you hate hexing him, Harry.  I…I can take turns with you if you like—”

 

“No!” said Harry, rounding on her.  

 

Hermione’s eye widened with hurt and surprise.

 

“Shit.”  Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling shame wash over him.  “I’m sorry, Hermione” he said.  “I didn’t mean to be such a git…it’s just that…”

 

“Oh, Harry!”  Hermione lunged at him, seizing him in a tight hug.  “I understand, I really do,” she sniffed.  “He’s your bond-mate, after all, isn’t he?  And bond-mates look after each other.”

 

_Bond-mate?_ thought Harry.  _Is that what bond-mates do? Everyone seems to know more about this than I do.  Bond-mate._ He rather liked the sound of the word.

 

“It’s wonderful thing, Harry, it really is,” said Hermione, squeezing him until he felt his ribs shift.  “The kind of closeness bond-mates share…so few people get to experience it.”  She pulled back and laughed, her eyes shiny with emotion.  “I guess I _am_ a little jealous after all…the three of us have always been, well, the three of us…and now, you two are going to leave me behind—” 

 

“Oh no, Hermione, no,” said Harry alarmed.  “We wouldn’t do that.”  He held her by the forearms.  “You’re part of us…we all belong together.”

 

“Don’t be silly, Harry,” said Hermione, leaning her forehead against his.  If Harry crossed his eyes a bit he could see hers welling with tears.  “I know we’ve come this far because we all bring something different to the equation…and we’re stronger together than we are apart.  But things _will_ change, Harry…and they _must_.  This moment won’t last forever.  When Voldemort’s gone…and he will be, Harry—” (now her tears overflowed) “we’ll move on and grow up, as we should.  But you and Ron are bonded now; you’ll grow closer and closer in ways I won’t be able to share.  I _will_ be left behind, Harry—”

 

“No, Hermione,” said Harry, wiping her tears away with his thumb.  “We’d never leave you behind.”  

 

In his heart, he knew she was wrong.

 

* * *

 

By eleven o’clock, Ron had been heavily drugged and nudged into bed.  He’d had his ankle Incarcerused to the headboard.  

 

When Harry had stopped in the kitchen to tell Mrs. Weasley goodnight, she had given him another enthused hug.  _Honestly,_ he thought _, it was more like a flying tackle_.  Mrs. Weasley hadn’t heard his _oomph_ of pain nor had she noticed she’d driven the small of his back into the sharp corner of the countertop.  Mr. Weasley had come to the rescue, gently tugging his wife away, then he’d given Harry his own shy hug.  Hermione had been hugged too while Ron had scrambled out of reach, giving his parents a nod before he loped up the stairs.

 

The redhead now lay on his back in his small bed, covered by a light cotton spread.  It made Harry a bit ill to see him so still, pale and limp.  “I don’t like it,” he complained to Hermione.  “He _is_ breathing, isn’t he?” 

 

“He’s fine,” said Hermione, putting her hand in his.

 

Partly because of what she said earlier and partly because he’d developed a roaring headache, Harry had asked Hermione to come up to Ron’s bedroom with him.  She had waited outside while Ron had changed into pajama bottoms and a less hideous shirt—a worn and baggy one, stretched out, no doubt, by some of the larger Weasleys.  When Ron was decent, Hermione had marched into the room with the twins’ potion in her hand and a fierce look on her face.  “Don’t argue with me, Ronald, about the potion,” she’d warned, glaring at him.  Ron had rolled his eyes.  “Wasn’t gonna,” he’d said irritably.  His eyes had flicked over to Harry, who had been turning down the sheets.  “Crikey, Mum used to wish for a nanny when we were little,” he’d muttered.  “Where were you two?”  After he’d taken his capful, Harry had sat on the edge of the bed, watching him slide down into unconsciousness.  When he had been certain nothing less than an almighty Ennervation and a hard whack across the face would wake his friend, Harry had performed the Incarcerus.  

 

Hermione now perched on the cot, looking back and forth between Harry and Ron.  “Honestly,” she finally said.  “You look as bad as he does, Harry.  I’ll stay and you go down and get another draught for your head.”

 

Harry nodded, unable to keep himself from wincing.  He padded down the stairs, considering a stop in Percy’s old room for his invisibility cloak in case Mrs. Weasley was still in the kitchen, lying in wait.  _One of her hugs, right now,_ he thought, _would do me in…at the least, I’d spew down her back._ But the kitchen was empty and he went quickly to fetch the vial, hoping a healthy dose would put his head to rights.  _I wish I’d thought to ask Ron sing to me again_ , he thought ruefully.  It had been so lovely, earlier, to lie with his head on his mate’s chest, the sweet song washing over him and floating away the pain.  He took a healthy pull from the vial, taking it with him as he left the kitchen.

 

When he returned to the bedroom, he saw Ron hadn’t moved, of course.  Hermione was at the very edge of the cot, watching Ron like some kind of guard dog.  “Hagrid should have put you on the trap door,” Harry muttered, massaging his forehead.  “Quirrell wouldn’t have had a chance.”

 

“You look exhausted,” she said ignoring him.  “Go on, Harry, lie down and I’ll look after the both of you.”

 

“But, Hermione—” 

 

Her look stopped him.  She drew herself up until she looked as starchy as McGonagall and Harry knew she meant to sit there all night.  He wanted to tell her there was no need, that he always woke when Ron dreamed his Death Eater dreams, but then his head throbbed sharply.  Suddenly he decided it would be nice to let someone else take charge.

 

“Thanks, Hermione.”  Harry took off his glasses and slipped into bed next to Ron.  He smiled at her before rolling away to face Ron.  He could feel her eyeballs boring into his back, but it was strangely comforting.  _I’m looking out for my mate,_ he thought, _and my other mate’s looking out for me._   He put his chin on Ron’s shoulder and his hand on his breastbone.  The light rise and fall of Ron’s chest reassured him.  He closed his eyes and took deep breaths.  His headache worked its way backward until it was a small black dot in the back of his skull.  Then it was gone.  

 

* * *

 

Harry drifted, mind tumbling with images:  Hermione’s eyes, absolutely huge since she’d cut her hair; Ron’s shoulder muscles moving fluidly as he pulled himself onto the ledge at the pond; his own shocking first glimpse of his new white hair in the mirror.  He watched his white lock turn red and then his hair went red and long and it was Bill’s hair swinging as he turned to face Harry.  Bill was talking to him, Harry could almost hear his voice.  Then he _could_ hear his voice.  He opened his eyes.

 

The room was dim, lit only by the waning moon.  The light was wan, the faint yellow of unlaundered sheets.  Hermione was silhouetted in the window.  She leaned on the on the casement, looking down into the garden.

 

“Hermione?”

 

“Bill’s back.”  She didn’t turn to look at Harry.

 

Harry rose to his elbows and glanced over at Ron.  As far as he could tell, the redhead hadn’t moved an inch since he’d gone under.  Harry put his hand on Ron’s chest.  The light movements reassured him.  _He’s not really asleep,_ Harry thought.  _He’s unconscious.  If he were sleeping, he would have cuddled with me._

 

“What time is it?”

 

Hermione shrugged.  “About two a.m., I think,” she said.

 

“When did Bill get back?”

 

“A half hour ago.  I heard him Apparate into the garden.”

 

Harry found his glasses and swung his legs over the side of the bed.  “The Pensieve,” he said, yawning.  “He said he’d be back for that.  Tired, Hermione?”  

 

“Actually, I’m fine,” Hermione answered.  She pushed away from the window and plopped back on the cot, running her fingers through her hair.  Harry saw her wand on the floor, its tip a faint blue, next to a fat book open on its pages.  

 

He went to the window to look out.  The moon was four days past full.  High and small, it cast its cold light on the garden.  As Harry’s eyes adjusted, he made out the dark shapes of the privets, the garden bench.  He heard voices, indistinct and murmuring.  “Is that Bill?” he asked Hermione.  “Who’s he talking to?”

 

“Charlie,” said Hermione.  She stretched out on her stomach on the cot and retrieved her book from the floor.  “You’d like to go say hello, wouldn’t you?  Tell him how Ron’s been getting on?  I’ll stay here.”  She glanced over at Ron’s still form.  “He hasn’t so much as twitched.  Even with you snoring in his ear.  I think we’re safe.”

 

Harry nodded.  He _did_ want to talk to Bill.  _Unfinished_ _business,_ he thought.  _The things he said…the way he made me come as if he were furious with me.  There are things I don’t understand…it’s going to bother me until we talk._   “I’ll just be in the garden, Hermione,” he said.  “Shout if you need me.”

 

She nodded, pointing her wand at her book.  Its faint light fell over tiny flowery script.  _She’s going to ruin her eyes_ , thought Harry.

 

This time he did stop by Percy’s room on his way down.  He didn’t know exactly why he wanted the invisibility cloak.  He only knew he did and that was enough.

Harry slipped the cloak on and stepped into the kitchen just in time to see a bottle of Firewhisky sail from the cupboard and out an open window.  He crept silently out the back door, following the bottle as it gently bobbed along.  It glided over the garden bench, where Harry saw two butterbeer bottles lying on their sides next to another—empty—Firewhisky bottle. _So they’re getting pissed,_ he thought.

 

The bottle revolved in the air; it swayed gently from side to side, looking tipsy itself.  It made its slow way toward the orchard with Harry following quietly.  He stopped at the edge of the orchard watching the bottle disappeared into the shadows of the trees.  He heard voices—Bill muttering “…your head up a dragon’s arse…” while a hard stream of urine hit the ground.  Charlie’s voice asked, “what the bloody hell’s taking it so long?”

 

“I gave it a soft summons, idiot,” Bill said over the steady flow of urine.  “Didn’t want it smashing itself to bits against a tree, right?”  The urine stream sputtered, spurted hard a few times, then dribbled to a stop.  Harry heard the rustle of clothes and then a zip.  “And here it is,” said Bill.  

 

“What?” asked Charlie.

 

“The Firewhisky, silly.  It’s about to knock you in the head.  Grab it, willya?”

 

Harry stood still just outside the grove of trees and listened.  He heard footsteps crashing around, then Bill said, “here,” and “shit, don’t sit there!  That’s where I pissed.”   

 

“Right—” (Charlie’s voice.) “—thanks for that.”

 

Harry waited for the brothers to settle down, listening to the faint noises of the bottle going back and forth, liquid gurgling in its narrow neck.  Then he glided as quietly as possible into the trees.  A blue light flared suddenly and Harry jumped before he could stop himself.  His heart hammered, but it was only Charlie lighting his wand and jamming it in the ground.  The brothers were now illuminated.  Harry could see them sitting shoulder to shoulder against the same tree, their faces lit eerily from below with the cold blue light.  They were silent as they passed the bottle.  Bill had tied his hair back and there was a crease between his eyes.

 

Deciding the brothers weren’t going any where soon, Harry bent his knees slowly and sank to the ground, dearly hoping he wasn’t about to sit in piss.  He watched as Bill lit a joint with his wand.  Soon the sweet smell of wizard’s hash hit his nose.  

 

Finally, Charlie said, “well, this brings back memories.”  He traded Bill the bottle for the joint.

 

Bill laughed.  “Feel like a bad kid, do you?  You think Mum would still smack us if she found out?”

 

Charlie let out a long stream of smoke.  “We’d be de-gnoming the garden—all the way to the village—for setting bad examples.  He laughed, coughing hard.  “I remember,” he wheezed, “doing this not that long ago and letting the twins take the blame.”

 

Bill shrugged.  “Bet they were a few trees over, doing the same thing.”

 

“Still we shouldn’t have…”

 

“We were berks,” agreed Bill.  “Typical big brothers…bullies.”

 

Harry watched as Bill threw back his head and put the bottle to his lips _.  He’s handsome all right,_ thought Harry.  _Beautiful, really.  He might be the best looking bloke I’ve ever seen.  He certainly leaves Ron for dead.  But it doesn’t matter._   _I just don’t want him **like that** any more.  I want…Ron.  _ His heart contracted the same way it had earlier in Ron’s bedroom.  _I finally understand why this family thinks I’m Ron’s.  Because…I am.  I really am._

 

“Did you see Fleur?”  Charlie’s voice broke into his thoughts.  

 

“Yeah.” Bill wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, gave Charlie the bottle and took the joint.  “She wants to come.”

 

“To the Burrow?  Charlie tipped the bottle.  “Will you let her?”

 

Harry saw Bill nod.  “It might be best,” he said, taking a hit off the joint.  “I could use a body guard.”

 

“About that—”

 

“Don’t, Charlie.”  Bill blew a long stream of smoke.  “I fucked up, right?  Things got a bit complicated…” 

 

Charlie swapped the Firewhisky for the hash.  “Didn’t look too complicated to me,” he said flatly.  His face was a pale blue-gray and, in the shadows, his eyes were dark holes.  .   

 

“Come on, Charlie,” Bill burst out, gesturing at his brother with the bottle.  “What do you know?  You’re a self-described monk, for shit’s sake!  You could care less about sex.  You’re perfectly happy to sit out there in Romanian, your head up a dragon’s arsehole—”

 

“You’re wrong,” Charlie broke in.

 

“Huh?” Bill looked up.  “You want sex?”

 

Charlie shrugged.  “Sure, just not like you, you bloody billygoat.  I just meant you were wrong about dragon’s arses.”

 

“Dragon’s arses?”  Bill looked confused.  Staring at Charlie, he took a drink, then put the bottle down between them.

 

“Yeah,” said Charlie.  “You keeping wanking on about dragon’s arseholes.”

 

“Yeah?  So?”

 

“So, dragons don’t have arseholes, arsehole!”   

 

Bill gaped at Charlie.  Then he burst out laughing.  It wasn’t the bitter laugh Harry had heard the last few times from Bill.  It was the unrestrained laugh of someone completely comfortable with the company he was keeping.  “No arseholes, Chuck?” he said.  “Everything has an arsehole.”

 

“Not really,” said Charlie, grinning a blue-ish grin in the magicked light.  “That’s very human-centric of you, you know.  There’s few centaurs who’d be very displeased with you.  Of course, centaurs _have_ arseholes…bloody huge arseholes…”

 

Bill giggled.  “You’re daft,” he said.

 

“Drunk,” corrected Charlie.  Harry thought his grin looked monstrous in the weird blue light. “But honestly, dragons do not have arseholes.”  

 

“Then where do we get dragon dung?”

 

“I’m glad you asked that,” said Charlie, beaming.  Under his cloak, Harry rolled his eyes.  _They are so bloody pissed,_ he thought, noticing the ash on the joint in Charlie’s hand had grown quite long.  _This might not be the best time to talk to Bill_.

 

“You see,” Charlie was saying, “dragons are like chickens or turtles, right?”  He finally remembered to take a hit off the joint and pass it to Bill.  “They don’t have arses, nor do they have penises and vaginas, not the way we think of them.  They have vents—cloacae is the technical term.  A single vent used for both waste and reproduction.”

 

“You’re shitting me,” said Bill.  “I’d have thought a dragon would be, you know, hung like a dragon.”

 

“Not at all,” said Charlie.  “If someone who knows dragons tells you you’re hung like a dragon, be very insulted.  Dragons have tiny penises…small internal hemi-penises or in some cases, tiny multiple penises called papilla.”

 

Bill blew out another plume of smoke.  He looked at Charlie, fascinated.  “So, is it a myth that dragons mate in the air?””

 

“Absolutely.  When dragons mate, the female squats and the male mounts her back, aligning his cloaca with hers.  A bit awkward, really.”

 

“And then they go take dumps out of the same hole?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Lovely,” said Bill.  He took a final hit from the joint and ground it out.

 

Harry rolled his eyes.  Had he really sneaked out after the brothers to hear about the mating habits of dragons?  Well, at least if he ever needed to cheer Hagrid up, he’d have an interesting topic.

 

“I’ll be damned, said Bill, slowly.  “Dragons are like chickens…”  His head came up.  “Does that mean that a cock is actually cockless?”

 

“You could say that,” said Charlie.  Harry saw him give Bill a mad grin before he grabbed the bottle.  Charlie threw his head back, let the whisky chug down his throat.  “Phew!”  He belched loudly and wiped his mouth.  “Burns,” he commented.

 

“Sure it does, idiot,” Bill said, “when you drink it like that.”  He grabbed the bottle away and set it far away from Charlie.     

 

The brothers stared at each other—Harry gawking at them both through the invisibility cloak—then burst out laughing.  Charlie gave Bill a playful shove.  Bill shoved back.  Charlie shoved harder and Bill toppled over with Charlie on top of him.  They wrestled back and forth for a moment, ending with Bill on top, pinning Charlie to the ground.

 

“Why do you do that?”  Bill frowned and sat back on his heels.

 

“Do what?”  Charlie reached up and grabbed Bill’s hair.  It was tied in a long braid down his back.

 

“Why do you let me win?  You’re bigger than me now, stronger, heavier.  You could take me, I’m sure.”

 

“You’re the big brother,” said Charlie, yanking hard on the braid. “I doubt I could beat you up and if I can, maybe I don’t wanna know.”

 

Bill got up and found the bottle.  Then he settled back against the tree.  Charlie remained where he was, stretched out on his back.  They were silent so long, Harry considered leaving.  But he needed them to make some noise…if he left while they were silent, they might hear him.

 

Then Bill asked, “When’s the last time you were laid, mate?”

 

For some reason the question sent Charlie into a fit of giggles.  “Two years, Christmas,” he said, sitting up.”  

 

“Shit, Charlie…you don’t mean—”

 

“Anica!” cried Charlie, laughing helplessly.  “Anica—who forgot to tell me she was an animagus!”

 

“Oh right,” said Bill, smacking his forehead.  “What happened again?  We were so pissed when you told me.”

 

“We were having a go,” said Charlie, grinning impishly.  “Then in mid-shag, she ups and turns into a panther.”

 

Bill laughed and shook his head.  His grin was as mad as his brother’s.  “And you made damn sure—”

 

“I made damn sure I satisfied her!” crowed Charlie, beaming.

 

The brothers stared at each other.  There was a moment when tension seemed to be building, then they both burst out into raucous laughter.  They shoved each other, playfully punching each other in the chest, grabbing at each other and toppling over.  Finally they settled again, shoulder to shoulder against the tree, each leaning on the other for support.

 

Bill was staring up at the leaves of the apple trees.  Harry looked up too.  Through the invisibility cloak, he could see the leaves on the lowest branches were ghostly blue by the light of Charlie’s wand.  _Maybe I can make my escape now,_ thought Harry.  He was starting to feel like he needed to be back with Ron.He had started to rise when Charlie said softly, “Come on and tell me about Harry, Billy.  You know you want to.”

 

Harry sank back down, his stomach somersaulting.  

 

“It doesn’t seem fair…to talk about Harry,” muttered Bill.

 

“Not really fair what you did to Harry,” countered Charlie.

 

“I know…I fucked up.  Don’t rub it in, right?”

 

“I don’t want to rub it in.  I just want to know where your head is.”

 

“Doesn’t matter.  I think I’ve offended Harry enough to keep him away from me.”

 

“It does matter…to me, you arse.  You’ve always said that Ronnie was yours…you look after him.  Well, you’re mine…I look after you.”

 

“I know,” sighed Bill.  He put his head on Charlie’s shoulder.  “You do.  And you’re brilliant.  An idiot, but brilliant.  I wanted to look after Harry too, you know…for Ron and just because he’s our Harry.  But then things just got complicated.” 

 

“Bill,” said Charlie slowly.  “Here’s what I’m wondering…were you inserting yourself between Ron and Harry?  As some sort of fucked-up way of protecting Ronnie?”

 

Bill squeezed his eyes shut.  “I’m so worried about Ronnie, Charlie,” he whispered.  “He’s just a kid and look who he’s up against—the darkest wizard in history.  He could get killed…in so many awful ways.  Hermione too.”

 

Harry shivered under his cloak, suddenly chilled to bone.

 

“Aw, Bill.”  Charlie rested his head on the top of his brother’s.  “I’m sorry.  I know it’s hard.  But Ronnie’s not really a kid any more, is he?  And he’s done quite well—aside from this Flint business and in the end that’ll help him too.  I bet he’s learned to keep his guard up some, right?”

 

“Yeah,” said Bill, numbly.  “Dad and I kind of had this conversation already.  Dad said, ‘Ron’s right where he needs to be,’ but he wouldn’t tell me what he means.  He’s got some sort of secret.”

 

Charlie sighed.  “This has been the summer for secrets, hasn’t it?”  Bill nodded.  “But you know,” Charlie went on, “you really can’t be both Ron’s protector and Harry’s lover.  It’dbe worse for all, I think, if you came between them.” 

 

Bill sat up, shaking his head.  “That’s not really what I was doing, Chuck,” he said.  “I really didn’t mean for any thing to happen between me and Harry.”  He found the bottle and sipped at it.  “The hell of it is, Charlie, I could have loved Harry.  He’s so brave and so determined…it just staggers me.  How he can be so unfucked-up after living with those fucked-up Muggles?  And those eyes…as clear as glass and unfuckingbelievably trusting.  He’s beautiful.” 

 

He _thinks I’m unfucked up?_ thought Harry _.  That’s rich_.  He’d heard enough.  He stood up and threw off the invisibility cloak.  “Heya,” he said, picking his way through the trees toward the brothers.

 

Bill, with the bottle to his lips, did a spit-take.  Charlie gaped at Harry.  “Oh fuck,” he groaned.

 

“Mind if I have a bit of the bottle,” asked Harry, holding out his hand.

 

Bill dropped his head into his hands.  His braid slid over his shoulder.  “How long have you been there, Harry?”

 

Harry shrugged.  His invisibility cloak was hidden behind him in the darkness and he felt no real urge to admit he’d been eavesdropping.  “Let’s say I just got here, right?”  He sat down in front of Bill and Charlie.

 

Charlie immediately clambered to his feet.  “I’ll leave you two to it,” he said.  “How ’bout I go check on Ronnie.”

 

“Hermione’s with him,” said Harry.

 

“Bet she’d like a hand, then.”  Charlie disappeared with a lurch into the trees.

 

“I’m sure Hermione will love a visit from a drunken dragon wrangler,” muttered Harry.  He took a cautious sip from the bottle.  The whiskey burned down his throat, making his eyes and nose water.

 

“Idiot left his wand,” said Bill, gesturing at Charlie’s wand which was still stuck in the ground.  

 

“Bill,” Harry started awkwardly.  “I’m sorry about everything.  I know I started this and you tried to back me off.”

 

Bill shook his head.  “Not your fault, kid.  It’s my fault or it’s no one’s…just people getting muddled up the way people will.”

 

“And now…I’m falling in love with your brother, ”  Harry blurted out, feeling his stomach do cartwheels.

 

Bill nodded.  “I know…I’m glad.”

 

“You’re right…it gets complicated, doesn’t?”  Harry sighed.  “And you were right when you said I was Ron’s.  But I want you to know,” he went on quickly, “that you helped me…honestly, you did.  I was so empty and lost when I got here.  With you…you healed me to a certain extent.  Otherwise, I don’t know if I’d have been ready to help Ron.”

 

“Thanks, Harry,” said Bill staring up at the trees.  “But you’ve have gotten there without me, sooner or later…”

 

“Maybe.  But he needed me sooner.”

 

Bill nodded.

 

“And Bill,” now that Harry had opened his mouth, he found the words tumbling out.  “I liked it when you took care of me, I did.  I wanted you to love me…and I still do.  Do you think” he felt a lump forming in his throat, “you could love me the way you love Ron?”  

 

Bill nodded.  “Of course…of course, I can.”  He threw the braid back over his shoulder.  “But Harry, give me a little while.  I need to…to turn things around at bit,” he said softly

 

“I promise you won’t have to worry about me tagging after you any more.”

 

Bill pinched the bridge of his nose with a pained look.  “Harry—”

 

“And you don’t have to have Fleur here if you don’t want her.”

 

“Harry—stop.”  Bill looked away.  “I think it’d be best,” he said.  “Fleur’s a good egg.  And she knows I’m not in love with her.”

 

Harry took a deep breath.  There was one more thing he had to say.  “For what it’s worth, Bill, I could have loved you too.  _That way.”_   He raised his eyes to Bill’s.  “In another time, another place, I could have loved you rotten.”

 

“Aw hell, Harry,” said Bill, whispered.  

 

In the cold blue light, Harry saw the older wizards’ eyes shine.  “You’re not going to cry, are you?” he burst out, horrified.

 

Bill laughed ruefully.  “Maybe I am,” he said, rubbing at his eye with a knuckle.  

 

“Are you mad at me?  Are you sad?” Harry asked uncomfortably.  He felt his face go hot.

 

Bill shook his head.  He smiled at Harry.  “In the first place, kid,” he said.  “I’m drunk.  In the second place, I’m emotional—for a lot of reasons.  Hell, Harry, people cry for all sorts of reasons.  Yeah, because they’re mad or sad…but people also cry when babies are born.  Parents cry when their children get married.  To know, Harry,”—Bill’s voice suddenly broke—“that my little brother—whom I love dearly—will be loved like few people are loved…it just turns me inside out.”  He took a deep breath.  “In a good way, love.  I’m moved.”

 

Harry felt like his own heart turn inside out.  Without thinking, he threw himself at Bill and hugged the older wizard tight.  _He is wonderful_ , he thought.  _And way too beautiful for his own good.  I am Ron’s…but a little of me belongs to Bill, too.  I’d have them both if I could.  But I have this feeling…that what I feel for Ron is going to far outstrip what I would have felt for Bill_.  He held Bill tightly.

 

“Harry.”  Bill was gently easing Harry back.  “Harry, love…I’ve been drinking.  I’ve made a lot of stupid decisions lately…don’t want to set myself up for another, right?  Go on back to the house, willya?”

 

Harry pulled away from Bill and nodded.

 

Bill leaned forward.  He kissed Harry’s forehead.  His eyes were wet.  And so were Harry’s.

 

* * *

 

It was on the way back that Harry got the first inkling that something might be wrong.  The back of his skull prickled, then suddenly a fierce pain stabbed through his brain.  He broke into a run.

 

“HARRY!  HARRY!”  A voice boomed out in the darkness.  It was Hermione, using a _Sonorous._

 

Harry ran faster.   He heard footfalls behind him and suddenly Bill was at his side.  The older wizard grabbed Harry by the arm.  Harry felt an almighty jerk and the most unpleasant feeling of being horribly squeezed.  He tried to struggle, he tried to breathe, but he couldn’t move.  The world went black and then suddenly he was tumbling forward on to a floor.

 

“What’s happened?”  Bill’s voice was urgent.

 

Harry looked up.  He was on the floor in Ron’s bedroom.  Charlie was pulling him to his feet.  Hermione was looking at him with a horrified look at her face.

 

“Harry!” she said distraught.  “It happened so fast.”

 

“What?  What?” said Harry, shoving his glasses back into place.  The others had turned away.  He followed their gaze.  

 

Bill, Charlie and Hermione were all looking through the window—at Ron who stood with his hands open in the way that reminded Harry of Muggle churches.  The air around was greenish, lighting the empty space above his head and beneath his feet.

 

“We can summon him,” said Charlie.  “We did it—”

 

Before Charlie could finish his sentence, there was a loud CRACK.  

 

Harry’s mouth opened in disbelief.

 

Ron was gone.

 


	23. Chapter 23

  
Author's notes:

This is a serial, updated about once a week...just a friendly heads-up for people who prefer to read finished pieces.

Betaed by [Brumeux77](http://astele.co.uk/TheQuidditchPitch/Chapter/Details/viewuser.php?uid=1234)

* * *

Stunned, Harry stared out the window at the green glow Ron had left hanging in the air.  He felt dazed and disassociated, as though some part of him had been jerked away with Ron.  _He Disapparated_ , Harry thought.  _He can’t do that._   The green glow dissipated like smoke.  Last to go was a smudge that looked curiously like Ron’s bare foot.

 

“Harry!”

 

Someone grabbed him by the shoulder and swung him around.  Off balance, Harry stumbled and nearly fell.  

 

“Harry?”  Arthur Weasley’s face was right in his, swimming as though Harry were looking at him through water.  “Harry, where’s Ron?”  The voice was urgent, but strangely distant.

 

_He’s asking me where Ron is,_ thought Harry.  _Does that mean I’m supposed to know?_ Mr. Weasley was holding him by the shoulders _but he looks far away,_ thought Harry _, like_ _he’s talking to me from the other side of a Quidditch pitch_   Bodies jostled his; there were broken sentences in the air. 

 

_“He grabbed my wand and broke the Incarcerous.”_

_“No one blames you, dear.”_

_“Ron can’t Disapparate.”_

_“Ronnie can’t climb, either, idiot!  It’s_ _Flint_ _!”_

 

“HARRY!”  Mr. Weasley gave him a little shake.

 

Harry shook his head, trying to clear it.  It hurt, like something was kicking and scissoring inside his skull.  “Arthur,” he said weakly, lifting his hand to rub his temple and poking himself in the eye.  “I feel so weird.”

 

Mr. Weasley’s face tightened.  “That means,” he said, his fingers digging into Harry’s shoulders, “that we need to find Ron immediately.”

 

Harry nodded; his head swam and the floor tilted beneath him.  He grabbed the front of Mr. Weasley’s pajama top to steady himself.  “Find Ron,” he repeated, his eyes rolling up in his head.

 

“Harry!”  Mr. Weasley shook him again.  “Are you with me, Harry?”

 

“Yeah,” said Harry.  “Here.”  But he was sagging to the floor, taking Mr. Weasley with him.  

 

“HARRY!”  Mr. Weasley shouted.  

 

Harry was on his hands and knees, his ears ringing, pain slicing through his head.  He felt a hand against his forehead and Hermione’s voice saying something about bonds and headaches.  A wand touched his temple and the pain backed up a little.  Bill’s voice came in clearly—“Dad, he said he could feel it when Ron was agitated.”

 

“He’s quite agitated right now,” gasped Harry as the pain hit him again.  “Hurts.”

 

Voices exploded in the room, panicked and sharp.  Wincing, Harry looked up.  Ron’s tiny bedroom was crowded with bodies—Mrs. Weasley, in a thin nightgown; Ginny, in soft shorts and a sleeveless sleeping shirt; Dean, shirtless in pajama bottoms; Hermione, her face stricken; Bill and Charlie, disheveled, their eyes red and puffy.   _Oh yeah,_ Harry thought numbly, _they’re pissed to the gills_.  The voices rose higher, slashing at him.  

 

“THE LOT OF YOU, QUIET DOWN!”

 

“Ow, Arthur.”  Harry put one hand to his forehead.  “Too loud.”  Black dots swam in his eyes and his ears roared.  Then a wand touched his temple again; the pain receded and his head cleared.  “Thank God,” he muttered, adding in a louder voice, “I’m okay now, thanks.”  He was able to sit back on his heels.

 

A deadly silence had fallen in the room.  The air was fraught with tension; it stank of sweat and fear.  Harry glanced up at Mrs. Weasley.  Her face was white and she was clutching Ginny, as though she were afraid another child might suddenly disappear.  Ginny tolerated her mother’s grasp, but her eyes blazed.  She looked like she wanted to fly at Harry and somehow claw Ron out of him.

 

“Listen to me, Harry.  We have to find Ron immediately.”

 

Harry turned back to Mr. Weasley.  The older wizard was kneeling in front of him, his face tight with panic.

 

“You are the only one who can do it.”

 

Harry nodded.  _I’m the only one_.  Instinctively, he knew it was true.  “Tell me how,” he said.  

 

“That’s just it, son,” said Mr. Weasley; his brow knit and his fingers digging into Harry’s shoulders.  “I can’t tell you.  You just have to do it.  That pain in your head…it’s part of the connection.”  His eyes searched Harry’s.  “Do you understand me?  You have to follow the connection.”

 

Harry nodded again.  He had never heard vaguer directions in his life, but somehow he understood what Mr. Weasley was saying.  He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, searching for something—he had no idea what—in his head.  His stomach churned and his heart felt like an icy hand had hold of it.  What he was about to do— _what was he_ _about to do?_ —was the most important thing he’d ever done.  What if he couldn’t do it?  _I can’t think that way,_ he told himself.  _I have to believe I can…but—_ panic seized him— _what if I can’t?  We’ll lose Ron!_   The panic overwhelmed him then.  He reeled, reaching out blindly.  “Arthur!” he cried, his voice breaking.

 

“Easy, son…I can help you.”

 

Harry felt a wand tip touch his chest, begin to move lightly.  The icy hand squeezed his heart and his head throbbed.    _Follow the connection,_ he told himself _,_ a sob rising in his throat. _Just._   _Follow.  Connection._ For a moment he thought he saw something, bright and sparkling behind his lids.  Then it winked out of sight.  Tears flooded his eyes.  _It doesn’t make sense,_ he thought in despair.  _I don’t know how to do this!_

 

“ _Reperio filius_.”  Mr. Weasley’s wand touched Harry’s heart; it moved gently over his chest, back and forth, rocking, weaving.  Harry heard the older man mutter indistinctly and the wand went on and on…back and forth, etching circles…no, figure eights into Harry’s heart.  “ _Reperio filius.”_ The words were soothing, calming _.  “Reperio amicus.”_

 

When the headache came again, Harry didn’t fight it.  _I don’t have to understand_ , he thought _.  Like the first time I flew…I didn’t understand, know how to do it…I just did it._   He took a deep breath.

 

The pain was floating now and he heard a watery roar in his ears.  There was something else beneath the roar—the gurgle of bubbling air and a faint singing that reminded him of merpeople.  He shivered, suddenly cold all over.  The pain flashed, sparkling on the lids of his closed eyes.  _That pain,_ he thought, _it’s Ron.  Ever since we bonded…when he gets upset, my head hurts.  But why merfolk…doesn’t make sense…what could singing mean?_   Bubbles of air streamed upward; the faint cold song tugged at him, touched his spine, making him shiver again with cold.  _Merfolk—_ he felt like he was dreaming— _what_ _you’ll surely miss most…the black lake.  Air bubbling up…dreaming at the bottom of the black lake…a song…a song in the lake.  Oh!_   His eyes snapped open.  “The pond,” he gasped.  “He’s in the pond.  I’m absolutely certain.”

 

“The pond!” Bill cried out.  There was a CRACK!  He was gone.

 

Mr. Weasley squeezed Harry’s shoulder.  “Thank you, son.”  CRACK.  He was gone too.

 

Charlie dropped quickly to the floor and put his arms around Harry.  “Hang on, kid,” he said grimly.

 

Harry tried to take a deep breath but before he could he was being squeezed again, squeezed horribly.  Hot blackness pressed in on him so tightly he thought he’d implode from the pressure.  His eyeballs bent backwards into their sockets and his teeth shifted inward.  Just when he thought he would pass out, his feet hit something solid.  

 

“Steady, steady.”  Charlie’s strong arms held him.

 

“Right.”  Harry took a giant lungful of air and grabbed for his glasses which were sliding down his nose.  Everything was dark and silent, his legs were cold…wet?  He was confused until he saw the reflection of the moon on the water.  _We’re in the pond!_ he thought.  _On the ledge right before the drop off!_   

 

Charlie had already let him go.  The big wizard quickly waded through the knee-deep water.  At the drop-off, he dove.

 

“Wait!” shouted Harry.  “This is wrong!”  

 

But Charlie was already gone.

 

Harry looked wildly about, his heart racing.  The flat surface of the pond looked back at him like a black and ominous eye.  Under its surface, Harry saw two lights moving erratically.  _Bill and Arthur,_ he thought. _They’re looking for Ron with Lumos and bubblehead charms, probably…but it’ll never work.  The pond’s too big.  We’ll never find him in time._

 

Harry’s head throbbed suddenly.  He realized with horror that the pain wasn’t nearly as sharp as it had been back in Ron’s bedroom.  _That can only mean he’s dying,_ he thought, _he’s dying and I have no idea what to do_.  His heart twisted with the sharpest pain he’d ever known.  Grief flooded through him, taking his breath and folding him in half.  _Is this what it feels like,_ he wondered, gasping, _when a bond breaks?_

 

CRACK!

 

There were noisy splashes behind him, and then Hermione and Mrs. Weasley were in the water beside him.  Their faces were blue in the light of their wands.

 

“Can you feel him?” Hermione breathed anxiously in his ear.

 

Harry lunged past her and seized Mrs. Weasley’s arm.  “Molly,” he choked, pulling her to him.  Tears streamed from his eyes.  “Help me, Molly.  He’s dying…help me.”

 

She nodded and touched her wand to his chest.  Her eyes swam and as tears slid down her face she began to sing.  She traced her wand over Harry’s heart, singing a plaintive song about a mother calling her children home at the end of the day, watching in the twilight for the faces she loved best.  The wand went in the familiar figure eight pattern; it etched over Harry’s heart, weaving in looping eights of sorrow.  _A mother’s sorrow_ , thought Harry realizing how different it felt from his own wild and leaping grief.  _It’s bitter, loving and hopeful, yet resigned…she’s always known she’d lose her children…that they’d leave her_.  He closed his eyes and let the magic do its work.  The wand went back and forth and even as more tears slipped down his cheeks, a measure of calm took him.  _It’s not too late,_ he told himself.  _I can’t lose hope._   

 

The tenor of Mrs. Weasley’s song changed.  With his eyes closed, Harry could see her voice; it rose silver and fluid, pulled and pooled like mercury.  It was so lovely it took him a moment to notice the other color reaching out to meet it.  The new color was faint, greenish-gray, and as Harry’s eyes followed it, he realized it was a voice too, singing its own song…a green-gray song that curled itself over and under Mrs. Weasley’s silver one.  As he listened, Harry realized the new voice was familiar…it was the song of the merfolk, the same song he’d had heard under the black lake at Hogwarts.  Feeling like he was dreaming again, he put his hand over Mrs. Weasley’s.  He swept their hands, wrapped together around the wand, away from his chest and traced the path of the new song.   Mrs. Weasley’s strong magic thrummed against his palm.

 

When he opened his eyes, he saw the wand was pointing straight into the pond, at a point to the left and mid-way to the middle.  “That’s where he is, Molly,” he whispered.  “Mark it and call the others.”

 

He heard Mrs. Weasley shouting, “ _Lumos Locus_ ,” and saw a jet of light jump from her wand as he put his hand over his face to keep his glasses into place and flung himself into the water.  When he surfaced, he saw a red glow floating on the water.  He struck out for it, swimming as hard as he could and wishing he were half the fish Ron was.  The overwhelming grief was gone and in its place were fierce determination and a grim awareness that he might not like what he found.  His head ached only dully now and he willed himself to believe that that ache meant that, at least, Ron was still alive.

 

When he reached the glowing mark, he took a several deep breaths and then doubled-up, thrusting himself down into the water.  He swam urgently, kicking and pulling furiously, descending into the blackest blackness he had ever seen.  He jerked his wand from his back pocket and shouted “ _Lumos Maximus!”_   A great bubble of air left his mouth and his wand tip flared, turning the water all around him light gray.  Strange flecks of white and bits of gray flotsam hung in the water; they fluttered, twirled as he shoved past them, pulling himself deeper and deeper down.  His lungs were bursting and his eardrums hurt, his eyes stung from the water, but he didn’t care.  _I know I’m close_ , he thought.  _He’s here, somewhere close.  I can almost feel him_.

 

As he kicked down further, a sudden flash to the right caught his eye and Harry swung his wand.  Nothing.  _He’s here,_ he thought, _I know it._ He kicked deeper and swept his wand from side to side.  _He’s here, he’s_ —suddenly Harry saw it:  a pale hand floating palm up into his circle of light.  Hope surging, Harry shot toward the hand.  It floated slowly back as though something were pulling it.  Swimming harder, he finally reached and seized it, jerking Ron into the circle of light.  He took only a moment to glance at his friend’s face—register its stillness, the blank open-eyed stare beneath the wild floating hair—then he tightened his grip around Ron’s wrist.  Pointing his wand at the surface, with his little remaining air, he shouted, “ _Ascend_ —”

 

Something hit him hard from behind.  He spun in the water and his wand was knocked from his hand.  He grabbed for it, his fingertips grazing it, sending it, still casting its eerie circle of light, twirling further away. _I could catch it easily_ , he thought, _if I let go of Ron’s wrist.  But if I let go, I could lose him again._   He tightened his grip on his friend’s wrist and swam after the wand, pulling himself awkwardly with one arm and dragging Ron’s weight behind him.  The wand’s light grew dimmer and dimmer; his hand stretched out to grasp it.

 

He was hit again in the middle of the back.  In the fading circle of light, Harry saw something—something pale, green and darting.   It tore past him, whipping around to face him.  Its long hair streamed and its fierce wild face bared pointed teeth.  Then the light was gone and he was plunged into darkness.  The thing hit him, tearing at him with spiny fingers.  Sharp nails raked his face and neck, tore his glasses from his face.  He clung desperately to Ron’s wrist and kicked out.  His foot made contact with something hard but yielding and he kicked franticly upward, clawing the water, fighting to reach the surface.  The thing hit him over and over again.  He felt his flesh tear, his blood flow out in the water.  His head grew light and he knew he was losing consciousness.  Something closed around his neck; it bit in tightly, pulled him down, down.

 

Suddenly a bright light enveloped him.  Red sparks exploded next to him and he felt the tight band around his neck loosen.  Then other hands were grabbing him pulling him upward and upward until his head finally broke the surface.  He threw back his head, taking in great gulps of air, hearing shouting voices.  

 

“Harry, Harry.”  Someone was talking to him.  “You can let go now.  We have him.  You can let go.”

 

There were lights all around him, above the water and reflected in its surface.  Heads bobbed near his and someone’s hot breath was in his face.

 

“It’s all right, love.  We have you.  We have him.”

 

_Is he alive?_  Harry couldn’t speak.  

 

“Let go, dear boy.”

 

He stubbornly tightened his grip on Ron’s wrist as blackness claimed him.


	24. Chapter 24

  
Author's notes:

This is a serial, updated about once a week...just a friendly heads-up for people who prefer to read finished pieces.

Betaed by [Brumeux77](http://astele.co.uk/TheQuidditchPitch/Chapter/Details/viewuser.php?uid=1234)

* * *

Harry jerked awake.  His head ached horribly and someone was yelling.  Cold wet arms held him tightly and something dripped on his forehead.  He saw her—that wild face, the streaming hair—

 

_NO!_

 

Panic shot through his body.  He twisted wildly and landed hard.  Hot liquid splashed on his back, burning something that already stung.  _Where’s Ron?_   He reached out groping.

 

“Harry!  It’s me!”

 

_Hermione._   He had just enough time to recognize her voice before a searing pain exploded in this head.  He cried out and doubled-up; bright spots popping behind his eyes.  _Cruciatus?_ he thought.  _But only in my head?_     He couldn’t move.

 

“…s’all…are you…hear me?”  Hermione’s voice came from far away, broken by the static in his head.

 

“Hermione,” he managed to gasp.  “Ron?”

 

“…don’t know…it’s...so…very but…s’alive…”  

 

He’d heard what he needed.  _Alive._

The pain slammed him again.  His head cracked in two.

 

* * *

 

He felt circles. _Molly’s drawing eights on my chest again_.  Her voice glided over the pain, pushed it back.  It pulled itself in tighter and tighter; he could see it, a black mass revolving.

 

“ _Abrumpius vinculum.”_ Mrs. Weasley traced a cross over his heart.  The black mass contracted, then expanded into pinpicks of light that winked out of sight.

 

_Thank God._   Harry took a breath and tried to open his eyes but his lids were leaden.  _Where am I?_ he wondered.  He felt his body, quite wet and draped limply over someone’s lap.  A cool hand stroked his forehead.  He hurt all over; he was shivering, nauseated and dizzy; his mouth tasted of bile.  But the headache—mercifully that was gone.

 

“SETTLE DOWN, DAMMIT!”

 

_Who’s yelling?_ he wondered.  More noises followed—shouts, curses, and the thumps of a violent struggle. _Where is he?_ He tried to move his head.  _Where’s Ron?_

 

“Give him the tea, dear.”  Mrs. Weasley was speaking.  

 

Hermione answered.  “I’m afraid the whole thing spilled.  He knocked it out of my hand.”

 

“Well, the cup, then.  I’ll refill it.”

 

Harry felt himself tugged up, propped against a small frame.  His chin hit his chest.  _Where’s Ron?_ he thought    _I want Ron._  A cold hand lifted his chin. 

 

“OY!” someone shouted.  “YOU’RE GOING TO HURT YOURSELF!”  There was a loud crash.

 

_What’s going on?  Where is he?_ Harry tried to ask, heard himself moan.  A warm cup was pressed to his lips.

 

“Drink.  It’ll help.”

 

The liquid poured itself into his mouth.  He swallowed it.  Immediately warmth rushed through his body, traveling from the center of his chest out to his limbs.  He was able to grasp the cup for himself, drink deeply.  He felt his bones heat, a bit of strength return to his limbs.  He opened his eyes.  “Where’s Ron?” he croaked.

 

Mrs. Weasley’s face was above his.  Without his glasses, Harry saw her fuzzily, but well enough to see she was looking beyond him, at something he couldn’t see.  “Molly,” he said urgently, a loop of fear twisting his gut.  “Where is he?”

 

Hermione answered.  “They’ve laid him on the kitchen table, Harry.”  Her voice came from behind him; she was the one holding him up.  He’s”—her voice cracked—“kicking up quite a fuss.”

 

_Kicking up a fuss?_   Harry felt a flutter of relief.  _That means he’s all right, doesn’t it? Mental, but all right.  I need to go to him._ He tried to sit up and tumbled to one side.

Hermione caught him about the ribs.  

 

“Ow,” he muttered.

 

“Easy, Harry,” Hermione said.  “You’ve been a bit banged up.”

 

_No shit,_ thought Harry, groaning and putting a hand to his side.  There was no place on his body that didn’t hurt.  He felt like he’d been pummeled, burned, had had his flesh torn.  Worse, he felt drained, wobbly and like he might spew at any moment— _like I’ve been cuddling with dementors,_ he thought sourly.   _But at least the sodding headache’s gone._   _The headache!_   Suddenly he realized what Mrs. Weasley had done.

 

“Molly,” he gasped.  His voice came out scratchy and water-logged.  “You broke the connection!”

 

Mrs. Weasley’s blurry face turned back to his.  “I had to,” she said sighing.

 

“Molly, no!” said Harry, horrified.  He reached for her hand.

 

Mrs. Weasley’s shoulders slumped.  “I had to, dear,” she said.  “You were seizing.  That bond…you boys will have to learn how to manage it.  It’s very strong…quite a bit stronger than I’d expected.”  She squeezed his hand.  “That’s how you found him, love,” she said, her voice trembling.  “And I’m quite sure it’s what kept him alive…underwater…all that time…oh, Harry…”  She squeezed his hand again, unable to say more.

 

“Molly”—Harry felt his throat constrict.—“he’s all right, isn’t he?  All that time underwater…what do you mean?  How long was he underwater?”  The questions scraped against his raw throat as his voice rose in panic.  “Why won’t you say he’s all right?”    

 

Something heavy went over with a bang.  Mrs. Weasley’s head jerked up.  “I have to go,” she said, rising.  Her hand slid out of Harry’s grasp.

 

“Molly—” Harry was seized by a sudden fit of coughing; it racked his chest and brought tears to his eyes.  He felt Hermione’s hands fluttering about his face, petting here and there.  She was talking to him, holding him gingerly.  He let himself fall back against her.  “Hermione,” he groaned.  “Please…tell me what’s going on.  Is he all right?”  

 

“He’s all right,” said Hermione soothingly.  Her cold hands stroked his hair back from his face.  “He’s a bit distraught, that’s all.  Let’s go to him, shall we?  Can you stand?”

 

Harry nodded.  

 

Hermione draped a blanket over his shoulders and went on talking in a low voice Harry knew was meant to calm him.  “He seems confused,” she said, “like he doesn’t know where he is and he’s putting up a fight…which is good, I’d say…it’s means he has plenty of strength.”  She’d managed to get Harry to his feet and he swayed against her, feeling about as sturdy as a paper doll.  

 

“Here.” Hermione handed him his glasses and wand.  “I summoned these from the lake when I saw you didn’t have them.”  She pushed her dripping hair back and picked her wet shirt away from her stomach.

 

_She’s as wet as I am,_ thought Harry.  _No wonder she was so cold.  I thought she was the… her_.  He saw the feral face again, the horrid teeth and shuddered.  

 

“He’s distraught, disoriented” Hermione was saying.  “Only natural, I should think…but it’s why Molly had to break your connection.  Those headaches of yours…well, it was a bit frightening, actually…you seemed to be having a seizure.”

 

_A seizure?_ Harry thought.  _I had a bloody seizure?  I don’t care.  I want my bond back.  I don’t care if it hurts_.   Hermione had eased him around to face the other direction.  He was in the lounge area of the Burrow.  Across the room in the kitchen, a commotion was taking place.  Harry could see shapes—all but one seemed to have red hair—oddly hunched and moving stiffly around the kitchen table.  “I need to get over there, Hermione,” he said.

 

She nodded, put her arm around his waist.  “You can lean on me,” she said.

 

Harry fumbled with his glasses, trying to get the earpieces hooked right.  His head was finally clearing and he was becoming aware of how much noise was coming from the other side of the room.  There was a bang and a loud clatter, followed by choked coughing and a garbled “FUCK!”  

 

“BE STILL, DAMMIT!” someone roared.  Harry recognized Bill’s voice.

 

“Ronnie, Ron…you’re all right, son.”  That was Arthur.

 

“SETTLE THE FUCK DOWN!”

 

Hermione sighed.  “Bill’s a bit distraught, too.”

 

Harry finally got his glasses in place and the room jumped into focus.  He sucked in a started breath.  The Weasley family and Dean were gathered around the kitchen table, hunched over something that struggled wildly.  Harry saw a bare foot kicking, heard someone cry out and that horrid choking noise again.  _Is that Ron?_ he thought, the blood draining from his face.  _What’s wrong with him?_

 

A burst of adrenaline surged through him and Harry stumbled toward the kitchen, dragging after him Hermione, who was determined to support him.  His heart was banging madly in his chest but what he saw nearly stopped it completely.

 

Ron was stretched out on the table, held down by his brothers, parents, sister and friend and fighting like a wild thing.  He was soaking wet, his eyes open and staring.  His mouth was bloody and the cords in his neck stood out from strain.  As Harry watched, horrified, Ron twisted violently.  He turned his head to the side, struggling and coughing in a wet, gurgling rasp.  It sounded as though he were strangling.

 

“What’s wrong with him?” gasped Ginny.  She laid over one of Ron’s legs; the other kicked dangerously closed to her face.  “It’s like he’s having a fit!”

 

“Ron!  You’re safe,” yelled Charlie.  He had Ron pinned down by his right shoulder, his arm flung over his brother’s ribs.

 

Ron tried to wrench away from Charlie.  His back arched and he seemed to stop breathing for a moment.

 

“Ron, it’s us,” Bill yelled.  He had an arm under Ron’s other shoulder and a hand on his chest.  

 

Ron fell back to the table gasping.  He coughed again, choking and wheezing as he tried to catch his breath.  His eyes rolled in his head.  He looked absolutely mad.

 

“This isn’t getting any better,” said Charlie grimly.

 

Ron twisted again.  He lifted his head and banged it down hard on the table.  

 

“Fuck,” said Bill, working his hand under Ron’s head.  “Ow, fuck…sod it, Ronnie…don’t bang your head.”

 

“It’s no use,” said Mr. Weasley.  “We’re going to have to Floo him to St. Mungo’s.  Bill, Molly, we’ll have to wrap him tightly in a blanket so he can’t struggle so.”

 

“Wait!” cried Harry.  He had seen something…something that had jerked him out of his horrified daze.  He fought his way up the table toward Ron’s head.  “There’s something in his mouth!”  

 

“What?  Where?”  Bill grabbed Ron’s head and held it still.  He turned Ron’s head to one side as Charlie and Mr. Weasley tried to pry his mouth open.

 

Ron thrashed wildly.  He choked and spat blood.  His arms, suddenly freed, flailed.  

 

“OUCH.”  Charlie drew back his hand.  “He bit the piss out of me!”  

 

“Something in his mouth, Harry?” asked Mr. Weasley, his brow deeply furrowed.  “I don’t see anything.”

 

“Way in the back,” said Harry.  He shoved past Charlie and put his hand on Ron’s cheek.  “Let me,” he said.  

 

Mr. Weasley nodded.  He helped Bill hold Ron’s head still while Charlie prized his jaws open.  Ginny, Mrs. Weasley, Hermione and Dean had all flung themselves over Ron’s body to keep him still.

 

Taking a deep breath, Harry reached toward Ron’s mouth.  He could see something glitter in the back of his mate’s throat.  _No wonder he’s gagging_ —“Shit!”  He jerked his hand back as Ron snapped at him.  “Hey!”  Without thinking, Harry thumped Ron hard on the forehead.  “Knock it off,” he commanded sharply.  “We’re trying to help you, idiot!”

 

Ron blinked, his eyes rolled in their sockets.  His eyelids fluttered for a moment, then popped open.  His gaze settled on Harry; his eyes moved right and left across Harry’s face.  He stilled, breathing hard and quivering under the hands that held him to the table.

 

“That’s it,” said Harry.  He took Ron’s chin in his hand and gently opened his mouth.  In the back of his mate’s throat, he saw it, the bright glint of a sharp corner.  With his other hand, he reached in and carefully grasped it.  Ron coughed and choked, but stayed still as Harry withdrew his hand.  Something small and sharp, something shiny and bloody lay in his palm.  He dropped it on the table and took Ron’s face in both hands.

 

“Ron,” he said, leaning over Ron and pressing his forehead to his mate’s.  “Are you all right?”  He heard his voice crack.  He squeezed his eyes shut.  Someone rubbed his back.

 

There was a murmur of voices but Harry didn’t hear what they were saying.  He was listening to Ron’s ragged breathing, to the hard thumping of his mate’s heart.  He laid his cheek against Ron’s forehead, stroked his friend’s wet hair.  The tension was leaving Ron’s body; he was quieting under Harry’s hands.

 

“Hey, Harry.”  

 

The voice was so hoarse, so raw and rasping Harry hardly recognized it.  Feeling his lips curve into a smile, he lifted his head.  “You with us, mate?” he asked.  He touched Ron’s cheek.

 

“Yeah.”  Ron closed his eyes and swallowed heavily.  He was still for so long, Harry wondered if he were drifting off to sleep.  He moved his thumb on the redhead’s cheek.  Ron’s eyes opened again.  He blinked.  “Mate,” he croaked, coughing, “you look like hell.”

 

“Me?” said Harry.  He laughed, so relieved he was almost crying.  “What about you?” Ron had blood on his lips.  His eyes were swollen and bloodshot.  There were long bloody scratches on his face and tears in his shirt.  

 

“You're all torn up,” said Ron.  One of his hands lifted weakly.  “She got you…right?”  As his eyes closed, his hand fell on Harry’s.  He curled his fingers around Harry’s.

 

Harry looked down at himself.  His shirt hung in ribbons from his shoulders.  Through the tears in the cloth, which was stained with water-thinned blood, he could see gouges in his flesh where the creature had snatched at him.  His arms were scratched and bloody and he suddenly became aware of a stiffness in his face.  He put his hand to one cheek and pulled it back to see blood on his fingers.  _Doesn’t really hurt,_ he mused.  _Maybe I’m a bit in shock._   He could feel his legs shaking, buckling.  Bill caught him as he folded.  Hermione righted a bench that had been kicked over and Bill eased Harry down in a sitting position..  _Yeah, I’m in shock,_ thought Harry, resting his head on Ron’s arm.  His ears were roaring.  He only dimly heard Molly speak.

 

“Arthur…this thing…it’s a mirror.  A piece of mirror.”


	25. Chapter 25

  
Author's notes:

This is a serial, updated about once a week...just a friendly heads-up for people who prefer to read finished pieces.

Betaed by [Brumeux77](http://www.thequidditchpitch.org/viewuser.php?uid=1234)

* * *

"It's a what?"

  _"A mirror,_ Arthur.  A piece of mirror.  I don't like it."

  _A mirror?_ _The thing I pulled from Ron's mouth was a mirror?_   Harry slumped exhausted over the kitchen table, his forehead resting on Ron's upper arm.  _I'm all in_ , he thought, wearily.  _If the table wasn't here, I'd be on the floor.  Still it's nice just to touch him._ He rolled his head so his cheek lay on Ron's bicep, looked down the length of his mate's arm to where his hand lay joined with Ron's.  _Ron took my hand_ , he thought, _just before he slipped into...into...wherever he is now.  After all that's happened, it's just nice to hold his hand...and feel it slowly warm.  He's not dead.  I thought he might be.  But he talked to me and he took my hand.  He's not dead...I can feel his pulse._  Harry sighed and let his eyes slide shut.  He was so tired he felt as if he were slowly spinning.  _It's like the kitchen table's become a raft,_ he thought dizzily. _It's bumping and spinning, carrying me and Ron downstream...somewhere...doesn't matter...as long as he's alive.  I only wish_ I _wasn't so knackered.  And that Dumbledore would come.  And that I knew what time it is...but I think the clocks have all gone mad.  They wind and unwind...spin and stop.  Like someone has a Time-Turner and is nervously flicking it back and forth.  Time moves slowly, then it gallops forward and I feel like I'm doing things I've done before...Am I making sense?_

 "Not really," answered a dry voice.  "But honestly, I'd be surprised if you were."

 Harry blinked. He laughed weakly, not bothering to lift his head from Ron's arm.  "Hermione?" he said, his voice hoarse.  "Was I talking out loud?"

 "Mumbling, actually," said Hermione.  "But I do hear rather well."

 Harry had his glasses on but still Hermione's face went in and out of focus.  Her hand moved, growing alarming large before it landed lightly on his head.  She stroked his wet hair, then let her hand slide down his back.  She gently massaged between his shoulder blades.  "Oh, Harry," she said.  "Do you hurt horribly?"  He thought he'd never heard her voice sound so tender.

 "A bit," Harry admitted.  He supposed he should hurt more, he supposed he _would_ hurt more once the shock had worn off but for the moment, he felt cocooned in a small pocket of safety.  His head was cradled on his best mate's arm and his other best mate was petting his back.  Between the two of them, they were grounding him, as they always had, ever since his first year in the wizarding world.  "It's nice, Hermione," he said softly, deciding that since he'd started his thoughts aloud, he'd finish them aloud, though he didn't care to lift his head which seemed only a little heavier than a rock.

 "What's nice, Harry?" asked Hermione softly.

 "Urm, let's see...that you're here, touching my back," answered Harry, letting his eyes close again.  "And that Ron's not dead.  He _is_ alive, Hermione...he might look dead, but he's not...he's sleeping.  He needs the sleep, doesn't he?"  Harry paused as the kitchen table pitched slightly and dipped.  "This table," he sighed and went on, "is wobbling rather much...on its way downstream.  I think perhaps it'll come to rest under some spreading willow where Ron can sleep forever, like Sleeping Beauty.  He can sleep if he needs to.  I really don't care as long as he's alive."

 Hermione made a noise; she continued to stroke his back.

 "Did I mention he's holding my hand, Hermione?" asked Harry.  "I'm sad that Molly broke the bond but I do have his hand...that makes me feel better.  I have his hand and with my head on his arm, I can smell him.  Sounds daft, I didn't even know I knew what Ron smells like but I do...he smells of his own skin and he smells _alive_.  So the table can go downstream, it can bloody well ascend to heaven for all I care.  As long as I can feel Ron's pulse, I'm good."

 Hermione made another noise.  Or maybe she was talking and Harry just couldn't hear her.  He _could_ feel her hand on his back, lightly stroking.  Her touch reminded him of Madam Pomfrey's-matter-of-fact, healing.  But she wasn't Pomfrey, she was Hermione, _his Hermione,_ and at the moment, he could hardly fathom how much he loved her.  One day he would tell her.  But not now.  He couldn't tell her now...telling her now would surely break him in half.  So he went on with his ramble, opening his mouth and letting the words spill out.  He knew his words were half-mad but he couldn't bring himself to care.  After all, he _did_ have quite the store of half-mad words.  Half-mad words, half-mad images-talking snakes, giants with pink brollies, parents who waved from mirrors and photographs, brains floating in green soup, man-eating curtains, underwater women who bit and clawed.  He'd hidden half-mad things in his body for years and now his muscles were heavy with them, his rib cage full to bursting.  Wouldn't any one who looked inside him, Hermione, want to lock him up?

 "No, Harry."  He heard her this time.  "It's not easy to reconcile two such disparate worlds.  Sometimes I wonder myself...if I've dreamed this whole thing up.  But I haven't and neither have you.  We're just here...in a place we never thought we'd be.  But that just makes us the same as anyone else, Muggle or wizard.  No one really knows what lies ahead."  

 "I do," muttered Harry, his hoarse voice scraping.  "And I'll tell you about it some day...just not today, all right?"

 "All right," Hermione said softly, "not today."  Her fingers went gently over his back and Harry realized she was pulling the half-mad words from him, her careful touch somehow urging them to the surface.  Really Hermione's fingers were as clever as the rest of her.  She was able to pluck out only the words that need to come now, and leave the others for later.

 "I felt him dying, Hermione," he heard himself say.  "Ron _was_ dying.  I felt him slipping away...just slipping away.  I felt him, then I felt him less and less and I knew when I didn't feel him anymore he'd be dead.  But here he is, _alive._  He's here and lying on the kitchen table like a big trout we're going to have for dinner.  I can feel his hand warming and I can smell him so I know it's him and not really a trout.  The bond is broken but he took my hand and he's still holding on even though he's out cold... _out, out_... _damn_...I really don't know whether he's asleep or unconscious.  He's just out.  I suppose I sound mad...do I sound mad, Hermione?"

 "Well," admitted Hermione, her hand moving from Harry's back to his cheek.  "You _do_ sound a bit like Lady Macbeth.  I don't suppose you'd go lie down?"

 "No."  

 "I thought not."  Hermione laid the back of her hand against his cheek, then against his forehead.  He knew from seeing Aunt Petunia do the same to Dudley that she was checking to see if he were feverish.  Finally she sighed.  "Wait here," she said.  "I'll be back in a moment."

 "Not going anywhere," mumbled Harry, rubbing his thumb over Ron's palm.  "Just downstream..."  The table spun gently and voices floated over his head.

 " _Calm down, Molly_.  We'll talk about it later.  Right now we have to see to the boys."

 "I DON'T WANT IT IN MY HOUSE!"  

 "Fuck.  _Fuck_."  

 The last voice was soft and choked.    

  _Bill,_ Harry thought.  He opened his eyes, raised his head slightly.  He saw Bill standing at the table, leaning heavily on his knuckles.  The tall wizard seemed to be talking to himself.  "That was scary, all right, bloody scary," he muttered.  "Down right fucking scary."  Bill's face was gray, with a mottled flush at the neck.  His wet hair clung to his skull.

 "OY!"  Heavy boots stomped across the floor. 

  _Charlie,_ thought Harry.  He saw Bill's head jerk up before he settled his own back down on Ron's arm.

 Why the hell did you pop off like that?" Charlie yelled.  "You left Harry in the bedroom, genius!  Didn't you think we might need him at the pond?"

 "Hell, NO!" Bill bellowed back.  "I expected Ron to be _in_ the water-not bloody _under_ it!  And what about you, mate?  You were in the room!  How the hell did you let him get out of the window?"

 "I'd like to have seen you stop him!  I've seen him climb twice-"

 "Bloody right you have!  He's climbed out the window twice on your watch!"

  _I never realized,_ thought Harry, letting his eyes slide shut, _Bill_ _and_ _Charlie_ _were such squabblers.  I don't remember a cross word between them at the World Cup.  But every one bickers at the Burrow, don't they?  Even that arsing downstairs toilet._

 Something landed on the table next to his head, making a rattling, sloshy sound.  "Drink this," a voice ordered.

 Harry cracked an eye open, stared balefully at a steaming cup.  "Won't," he declared, as the table tilted so sharply he thought he might roll off.  "You're Dolores Umbridge and you've put Veritaserum in my tea."

 "Harry." Hermione blew out a breath.  "It's healing draught.  Can you sit up?"

 Harry shrugged.  He didn't want to sit up.  He liked having his head on Ron's arm.  But Hermione meant to tug him up, by George, and rest him against her small frame.  _Fine,_ he thought, _have it your way._   He curled his fingers more securely around Ron's as she lifted his chin and placed the tea-cup at his lips.  

 "You're surprisingly strong, Dolores," said Harry, wondering why his voice sounded it was coming from the bottom of a well.  "I'll give you that.  But that better not be a Nose-Biting Teacup."

 "It's not a Nose-Biting Teacup," said Hermione, sighing.  "I am _not_ Dolores Umbridge and this is _not_ Veritaserum.  Furthermore, Ron is not a trout and he _is_ alive.  Now will you please drink?"

 Harry drank as the hot liquid slipped into his mouth.  The potion rushed through his body, making his head spin first one way, then the next.  There was a roaring noise in his head, as though someone had stuck a vacuum hose in his ear to suck out all the nonsense.  Suddenly he could think clearly again.  "Blimey," he said, flushing slightly, as he struggled up and turned to look at Hermione.  "I've been raving, haven't I?"

 "A bit," said Hermione, putting her hand to his forehead in a very businesslike manner.  "As I said, I'm not surprised...considering the ordeal you've been through tonight.  Here, eat this chocolate, it'll help.  How do you feel now?"

 "Fine," lied Harry.  He took the chocolate she gave him and let it melt in his mouth.  Truthfully, he was in pain.  Even with the healing potion working its way through his body, he hurt all over.  Every muscle felt like it had been punched and pummeled and his skin felt as if it were hanging in meaty tatters.  The only thing that felt right-perfect really-was his left hand, still firmly wrapped up with Ron's. 

 He let his eyes drift from Ron's hand, up his arm and over his torso to his wan face.  "Ron, my friend," he said wincing.  "You're a right mess." 

 Ron didn't respond.  Nor he did move.  But he did breathe as he lay sprawled on the table _and_ _that_ , thought Harry _, is something_.  _Still, drenched to the skin like that, he looks just this side of drowned...and that mouth, blood-red.  Between his pallor and his bloody mouth, he looks like a fucking vampire._ Harry reached out to pluck at a bit of Ron's shirt.  He didn't like the way it clung to the dips between his mate's ribs, making him look nearly skeletal.  He didn't like the way Ron's white shirt had turned pink from water-thinned blood and how, through the rips on the long sleeves, he could see fresh wounds crossing the old.  He pulled Ron's hand across the table, rubbing it between his own.  _He **is** alive,_ he reminded himself, feeling the strong thump of Ron's pulse against his thumb.  _I don't know how, but he is._

 "Are you really all right, Harry?"  Hermione asked.  As she passed him more chocolate, he could feel that her mind had moved on to something else.  She was looking past Ron.

 "For now," said Harry, following her gaze.  

 Hermione was watching Mr. and Mrs. Weasley who were standing very close together, making puddles on the floor with their sodden nightclothes.  Harry suddenly realized that Mrs. Weasley wore a very wet nightdress that clung tightly to her wide frame.  He quickly averted his eyes, only to have them fall on Ginny, who in her soaked and transparent sleeping shirt and shorts, was positively indecent.  Dean, next to Ginny, wearing nothing but wet pajama bottoms was even worse.  Hermione, Charlie and Bill, at least were fully dressed, though their clothes were dripping wet. "Hermione," Harry asked, deciding it might be best to close his eyes, "were we all in the pond?"  

 "Of course, silly," responded Hermione, staring a hole through Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.  "But never mind that.  "Look at them."  She nudged him.  "They have the mirror."  

 Harry didn't want to look at "them" but it couldn't be helped.  He opened his eyes.  Mr. Weasley had a flannel and was rubbing it against something in his hand.  Harry looked closer-it was the bit of mirror he'd pulled from Ron's mouth.  Mr. and Mrs. Weasley put their heads together to stare at the fragment intently.  "I don't see anything," Mr. Weasley finally said in a hushed tone.  "Let's talk to Albus, certainly.  I don't like that it's somehow put itself back together, but it _has_ been ages.  I highly doubt it works any more."

 "What are they on about?" Harry whispered to Hermione.  Suddenly he knew.  He pressed Ron's hand between his as a chill swept over him.  

 "Isn't it obvious?" Hermione whispered back, not tearing her eyes away from Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.  

 It was.  

 "It's Flint's," said Harry, his stomach lurching with dismay.  "But they said they ground it to bits and threw it in the pond-"

 "Yes," said Hermione, turning to look at him with blazing eyes.  "They ground it up and threw it in the pond twenty-five years ago.  And now it's back, Harry.  Somehow it's put itself together again...and done again what it was enchanted to do."

  _Find Molly,_ thought Harry, his heart sinking.

 * * *

 Things seemed to happen quickly after that.  Through it all, Harry found himself unable to let go of Ron's hand. 

 First, Mrs. Weasley plucked nervously at her locket and demanded that Mr. Weasley get rid of the mirror.  "I won't have it in my house, Arthur," she said firmly.  "I won't."  So Mr. Weasley banished the fragment with a flick of his wand.  Then to Harry's surprise, he swept his wife into his arms and kissed her squarely on the mouth.

 "Oh, Arthur," sighed Mrs. Weasley.  She leaned into him and their bodies came together with a squelch.

 "Erm-" said Hermione faintly.  She fired a quick drying spell at the Weasleys.  

 Mrs. Weasley looked up, startled, as her nightgown suddenly billowed and dried, floating back down to drape a little more modestly around her ample form.

 Second, Mrs. Weasley's eyes fell on the kitchen table and she seemed to remember she had almost lost a child.  "RON!" she shrieked.  She made for the table, her large bosom jouncing in her thin nightdress.  _Like two Quaffles in a sack_ , thought Harry, closing his eyes again.  Mrs. Weasley threw herself on Ron, knocking Harry to one side.  He managed to hang on to Ron's hand-even with Mrs. Weasley's padded hip squashed against the side of his face.

 "Oh, Ronnie!" wailed Mrs. Weasley.  She snatched him half off the table and clasped him to her breast.  Ron's head rolled and a trail of blood leaked from his mouth.  

 "Molly!"  Mr. Weasley shoved his way to her side.  "For heaven's sake, love, go easy.  The boy's been hurt."  He gently worked Ron from her grasp.

 Mrs. Weasley nuzzled Ron's hair and kissed his temple before she allowed Mr. Weasley to ease him back on to the table.  "Oh, Ron," she sighed, leaning over him and touching his cheek.  She felt his forehead and peeled back one of his eyelids with her fingers.  Then with Mr. Weasley hanging over her shoulder, she traced her wand gently over an ugly scratch that ran from Ron's jaw to cheekbone.  " _Sanos_ ," she said.  A bit of purple smoke hissed from her wand and the scratch zipped itself shut.  "Just what this one needs," she muttered, her mouth in a bitter twist.  "More wounds."

 "He is beat up," admitted Mr. Weasley, "but, dear, he's going to be all right."

 Mrs. Weasley whirled to face her husband.  "Arthur," she said, her voice trembling.  "I want that... _that thing_...out of my pond.  I want it out _now_.  It nearly killed Ron and Harry.  Oh!"-she put a hand to her heart-"HARRY!"

 Mrs. Weasley wheeled and fell on Harry's neck, nearly knocking him from the bench. "Oh dear, Harry dear, I'm so sorry," she wailed.  "I was distraught...I forgot all about you.  And look at you!"  She thrust him away to hold him at arm's length.   "You're torn to shreds!  Worse than Ron!"  She snatched him back and shoved him face first into her bosom.

 " _Molly!_ " Mr. Weasley threw Harry an apologetic look as he rescued him.

 "Crikey."  Harry groaned and fell against Hermione, hurting worse than ever.  He was sure Mrs. Weasley had re-opened some of his drying wounds and inflicted new ones as well.  He locked his fingers more securely with Ron's as Hermione propped him up.

 "Charlie!  Charlie!" Mrs. Weasley cast a wild look around the room.  "Where are you?"  Her eyes narrowed when she spied Charlie near the stairs arguing heatedly with Bill.  "Oh, for pity sakes!" she hissed.  " _Boys!"_   With an angry slash of her wand, she summoned a spoon from the countertop.  It leapt into the air, zipped across the room and rapped Charlie smartly on top of the head.  

 "Ow!"  Startled, Charlie clutched at his head.

 "CHARLES WEASLEY," Mrs. Weasley roared, her face going radish red.  "I NEVER!  ARGUING WITH YOUR BROTHER AT A TIME LIKE THIS!"

 "All right, Mum, all right..."

 "COME SEE TO HARRY!  I NEVER!  BICKERING LIKE CHILDREN!"   Livid, Mrs. Weasley slashed her wand again.  The spoon leapt for Charlie, bouncing off his skull with a sharp crack.  It jumped over to give Bill a good thump too.

 Charlie rolled his eyes.  "Coming, Mum-OW!"  He smacked the spoon as it darted in for another blow, sending it spinning across the room.  

 Mrs. Weasley was nearly spitting with rage.  "DON'T THINK I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'VE BEEN UP TO, CHARLES WEASLEY," she bellowed.  "YOU AND YOUR BROTHER BOTH!  ORDER MEMBERS!  DRINKING ON THE JOB!  NOT KEEPING WATCH!  GOING ALL TO POT!"  

 "All right, Mum," said Charlie mildly.  "Save it for later.  I'll see to Harry now."  He ruffled Harry's hair.

 Charlie's casual response only inflamed Mrs. Weasley further. "ALL RIGHT FOR YOU, CHARLES WEASLEY!" she shrieked.  "GO ON AND HAVE YOUR BIT OF FUN!  YOU AND YOUR BROTHER BOTH!  DRINKING ON THE JOB!"

 "All riiiiiiiiiiiiiiight, Mum," muttered Charlie.  To Harry, he said, "Let's go, kiddo."  He slipped his arms under Harry's knees and shoulder and lifted him easily from the bench.

 And that's when it happened.  Before Harry could stop it, it happened.  Charlie lifted him into the air and Ron's hand slipped out of his grasp.

 "NO!" Harry felt like the word was torn from his throat.  "No!" he shouted, grabbing wildly for Ron's hand.  "Charlie, lemme go!"  But his ragged voice was lost on the gales of Mrs. Weasley's tirade.

 "ORDER MEMBERS!" she thundered.  "I'LL HAVE YOU BOTH THROWN OUT, DON'T THINK I WON'T!  GOING ALL TO POT!  RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE YOUNGER ONES!  I WON'T HAVE IT!"

 "Charlie! STOP!" Harry howled, trying to twist out of Charlie's arms.

 "Hey, hey," said Charlie, bouncing Harry higher in his arms.  "Hang on...s'all right.  We're just getting out of Mum's way...outta harm's way," he added darkly.  "Then we'll see to those nasty gashes."

 "LET ME GO!" cried Harry.  Panic seized him, throwing tight bands around his chest until he could hardly breathe.  He felt like he was underwater again, fighting against the thing that would drag him under.  He fought now like he did then, wildly, desperately.  But Ron's hand, just like it had underwater, seemed to retreat from, drawing further and further away.  Harry twisted, he kicked and CRACK, his knee connected hard with Charlie's chin.

 "Bloody hell, Harry!"  Charlie swore and staggered.  A bead of blood appeared on his lip.

 "Harry!" Hermione stepped in front of them, her eyes wide. "Whatever are you doing?"  She reached for his arm.

 Harry snatched at her wrist and jerked her toward him.  She stumbled, looking frightened.  "What is it, Harry?" she cried, alarmed.

 "It's Ron!" Harry yelled hoarsely.  "It's the bond...MOLLY BROKE THE BOND!"

 A sudden light went on in Hermione's eyes.  "Oh!" she gasped.  "No, Harry!"  She whirled toward Mrs. Weasley, looking for help, but Mrs. Weasley had turned back to the table.  She hovered over Ron, railing on about "NO ACCOUNT SONS GOING ALL TO POT" as she stabbed her wand at him, looking almost as if she meant to hurt him.  Purple smoke billowed from her wand.   

 "Listen, Harry," said Hermione, her face set.  "It's all right-"

 "IT IS NOT ALL RIGHT," shouted Harry.  His face was burning and his breath coming in pants.  "NOTHING'S ALL RIGHT!  THE FUCKING BOND IS BROKEN!"

“THE BOND IS NOT BROKEN,” screamed Hermione, seizing Harry by the arms.  “YOU LISTEN TO ME, HARRY POTTER!  THE BOND IS NOT BROKEN! 

 

But Harry had finally managed to wrench himself out of Charlie’s grasp.  His feet hit the floor and he staggered, taking a step toward Ron.

 

“Stop, Harry,” panted Charlie, getting an arm around Harry’s waist and pulling him back.  “She’s right.  The bond’s not broken.”

 

“It’s the connection, Harry,” said Hermione, her face close to Harry’s now.  “The _connection_ …it’s different from the bond.”

 

“She’s right, Harry,” said Charlie, holding Harry fast against his chest. “Bond magic does create a connection…one you might feel for hours or days…but the connection is different from the bond—”

 

“I DON’T CARE!” screamed Harry, his voice breaking.  “GET IT?  I DON’T GIVE A SHIT!”  

 

“All right, all right, I get it,” sighed Charlie, exasperated.  “I get it.  Just hang on, willya?  And be still for shit’s sake!”  He bent and swept Harry up in his arms again, moving quickly before Harry could start struggling.  He stomped around to the other side of the table and plopped Harry down on its surface right at Ron’s feet.  “Now,” he said, releasing Harry.  “We’re out of Mum’s way and you can see Ronnie, right?  You can touch him if you want.  Are we better now?  Harry?”  He touched Harry gently.

 

Harry smacked Charlie’s comforting hand away from his shoulder.  His chest was heaving and he was trembling with fury.  He didn’t have any words for what he was feeling other than _violated_.  How dare anyone take him away from Ron?  How dare anyone break his connection and say it was for his own good?  How dare anyone pull his hand from Ron’s as though it meant nothing at all?  He didn’t have words and he didn’t really understand the bond—he only knew it was so intimate, so core.  He had taken a part of Ron into himself and given a part of himself to Ron.  For someone to take his hand from Ron’s without asking…well, they might as well have severed his own hand.

 

“Harry,” said Charlie.

 

Harry was so angry, he couldn’t speak.  He couldn’t even look at Charlie.

 

“Harry.”  Charlie tried again.  He sounded as though he knew he was walking in a minefield.  “I’m sorry, love…erm, can you just let me…do you mind?  Let’s try this, right?”  Charlie picked up Harry’s hand and laid it gently Ron’s bare foot.

 

Harry had to squeeze his eyes shut.  Tears had swamped them the moment his hand had touched Ron’s bare skin.  He took a deep breath and let his fingers slide over Ron’s foot.  Here where Ron’s skin was so thin, Harry could feel it all, the bumps of his bones, the knob of his ankle, the thump of his blood as it moved through the veins.  He could feel the thick sole and hard callus of Ron’s heel, the narrow bones that could be snapped like dry sticks.  _It’s like taking everything a person is_ , Harry thought.  _All the resilience and all the frailty—everything that’s robust and everything that’s paper-thin—and packing it into one body part._    In the next moment, he rolled his eyes, thinking, _Harry, you arse, it’s just a foot_.  Still, he sat on the table, his mate’s foot held carefully in his lap, his eyes burning and his nose flooding with hot liquid.

 

“Chocolate.”  Hermione suddenly loomed over him.  She popped a piece in his mouth before he could protest.  He glowered at her but sucked the sweet, feeling the awful shaking in his arms and legs slow.  

 

“Better, Harry?”  

 

Harry nodded curtly.  His anger was bleeding away now that he was touching Ron again but he still couldn’t bring himself to look at Charlie.  He ducked his head and held Ron’s foot with one hand while he scrubbed at his face with the other.

 

“Oh, Harry,” Charlie sighed.  He sat down on the table next to Harry and folded his arms.  He seemed to know now was not a good time to touch Harry.  “Listen, kiddo,” he said in a low voice.  “I’m sorry.”  He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.  “It’s been kind of a tough night and I admit I’ve been drinking.  I’m sorry, okay?”

 

Harry nodded brusquely again.  He could feel Hermione’s eyes on him and knew she didn’t quite understand but was smart enough to know it.  He thought Charlie might understand because he’d grown up in a family that had at least two bonding couples.  But then again, he didn’t really understand himself.  _Molly said we needed to learn to protect ourselves,_ Harry thought.  _There must be a lot to learn about bonding.  It seems like it should be simple, but apparently it’s not.  And it’s probably one of those things people can give advice about but you still have to kind of fumble your way through_.  He ran his finger lightly over Ron’s foot, suddenly feeling very tired.

 

Charlie was talking.  “Ronnie’s all right, Harry,” the big wizard said.  “He really is.  As all right as he can be considering the circumstances.  And Mum is taking care of him.  Now will you please let me take care of you?”  Charlie shifted, still taking care not to touch Harry.  “You need healing, you need restorative potions.  And for God’s sake, you need sleep.  To tell you the truth, I’m surprised you’re conscious after all you went through.  I’m absolutely gobsmacked you’re lucid.”

 

“Lucid?” muttered Hermione, her voice shaky.  “Now, that’s debatable.”  

 

Charlie ignored her.  “Sleep tonight, Harry,” he said, nudging Harry lightly with his shoulder.  “When you wake up, I swear you can have your Ron back.”  He laughed, running a hand through his hair.  “God knows, no one else wants him. He’s been a dead rotten pain this summer and we’re more than happy to hand him over.  He’s yours—and I’m speaking for the whole family, Harry—all yours.  All right, little brother?”  He nudged Harry again.

 

Harry finally looked up into Charlie’s friendly, concerned face and felt his shoulders wrench.  He couldn’t keep it in.  He clutched Ron’s ankle with one hand and put the other hand up to his face, feeling a sob shake loose.

 

Charlie stood up and pulled Harry to him, holding him close.  “Hey, little brother,” he said softly.  “You were brilliant, you know.  You saved Ron’s life, love…without you, we would have lost him for sure.”

 

Harry buried his face into Charlie’s shoulder.  “I don’t even know what happened,” he hiccupped, choking back his sobs.

 

“I’ll tell you everything you want to know, love,” said Charlie, rubbing his head over the top of Harry’s head.  “Everything I can.  But let me do what I need to do while we’re talking, right?”

 

Harry nodded into Charlie’s shoulder.

 

Charlie squeezed Harry gently and stepped back.  He took Harry’s chin in one hand and tipped the boy’s face up.  “You really were brilliant,” he said.  “Honestly.  None of us will ever be able to thank you.  He brushed Harry’s hair back and kissed him gently on the forehead.  

 

There was a strangled sob.  Harry looked up.  Hermione had collapsed on the bench near him, her face in both hands.  “Hermione?” he asked surprised.  “Are you all right?”

 

“Oh, Harry!” she wailed.  She snatched a flannel from the table and buried her face in it.  “It’s just…oh hell, don’t mind me.”  She sobbed loudly into the flannel.

 

Harry took a deep breath and looked around.  Ginny and Dean stood nearby, watching.  Ginny leant against Dean and he had his arm around her.  Both, to Harry’s immense relief, had undergone drying spells and Ginny had covered up with a jeans jacket so big it obviously belonged to one of her brothers.  Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were bent together over Ron.  They had finished healing the gashes on his face and had banished his shirt to work on his arms and torso.  It made Harry’s heart turn over to look at his mate.  He’d been dried so he didn’t look half so drowned; still, his face was pale and his lips white now that the blood had been cleaned.  _Bill will go absolutely spare when he sees Ron,_ he thought, glancing up.  Where was Bill?

 

“All right.” Charlie was all business again.  “Let’s have a look at you, Harry.”  He examined Harry’s neck and shoulders, his fingers moving gently over gouges and drying blood. “Well, your shirt is in ribbons, mate,” he finally said.  “Let’s just get rid of it, shall we?”  He glanced over Harry’s head.  “Hand me that robe, ’Mione?  On the back of the door?”

 

“Don’t call me ’Mione,” replied Hermione curtly.  Done with her cry, she tossed the flannel to the table and fetched the robe for Charlie.  “I detest twee little girl names,” she said.

 

“Gotcha,” Charlie said lightly. “Hermione.”  He banished Harry’s mangled shirt and gently draped the robe over the boy’s shoulders.  “By the way, Hermione,” he said, glancing up at her.  “If Bill gives you shit about what happened in the bedroom, tell him to piss off, right?”

 

“I am not afraid of Bill Weasley,” Hermione said crisply.  She used her wand to dry first herself, then Harry and Charlie.

 

“Good for you,” Charlie responded.  “Mind if I borrow your wand?”

 

“Where’s yours?” asked Hermione, frowning as she passed it over.

 

“Think I left it stuck in the ground in the orchard,” responded Charlie.  “Bill and I were having a bit of a party.  _Sanos_.”

 

Harry jumped.  Charlie had been tracing his wand over a deep cut on his chest.  Harry’s skin stung and tingled as purple smoke hissed from the wand and the cut closed up.

 

“And where is Bill?” asked Hermione.

 

Charlie looked up, glancing quickly around the kitchen.  “Well, he’s not here, is he?” he said.  “He must have gone outside to have a spew…got the family weak stomach, that one.  Or he might be punching a tree or kicking a few chickens.  He takes things personally, the nutter, when it comes to Ron.”  He touched Harry’s neck with Hermione’s wand.  “ _Sanos_.”  

 

Harry twitched as his skin stung and a curl of purple smoke went up.  He was only half-listening to Charlie and Hermione.  For one thing, now that his emotional storm had passed, he was aware of the pain racking his body.  For another, he was intent on Ron’s foot which lay in his lap.  He rubbed it gently, bringing warmth back to the bluish skin.  He slid his thumb around Ron’s ankle bone, traced his finger over a raised blood vein.  He was too tired now to have many coherent thoughts, the words tumbled over themselves in his head.  _It’s his foot, Ron’s foot,_ he thought _.  I wanted my bond back but then he took my hand and I was happy with that.  Now I have his foot._ He stroked Ron’s instep, feeling painful knots in his chest let go one by one.  _It’s just a foot, but when I hold it…it’s enough._ He traced the graceful curve of Ron’s arch, followed the thin bones that ran out to the long elegant toes.  _Who knew a foot could be so lovely,_ he thought.  _Or that his heel would fit so sweetly into my palm._   _Oh fuck, listen to me…I’m bonding with his foot.  When I tell him, Ron will take the piss out of me forever…_   

 

“Are you with us, Harry?”

 

Harry looked up.  Charlie was staring at him.  Between his fingers, Hermione’s wand let out a plume of purple smoke.  Harry nodded.  “Tell me what happened, Charlie,” he said

 

“Starting from where?” asked Charlie.  “ _Sanos_.”  He sealed a cut on Harry’s shoulder.

 

“First of all, how did I find Ron?”

 

“Dad helped you,” said Charlie, taking a damp flannel and wiping blood away from the newly sealed wound.  “Up in the bedroom…oy, have some more chocolate, right?  In the bedroom, Dad augmented the connection you and Ron had established with the bond magic.  And you were able to follow that connection to find Ron.”

 

“I heard singing,” said Harry, tracing a spidery vein on Ron’s instep.  “It was strange…the song from the Triwizard Championship, that’s what I heard…the song from the egg and in the black lake.”

 

Hermione was listening raptly.  “That doesn’t make sense,” she broke in.  “Why would the Siren be singing the song from the Triwizard Championship?”  

 

“No idea,” said Harry.  “All I know is I followed the song to Ron.”

 

Charlie sealed another cut.  “From what I understand,” he went on, “Mum helped you follow the connection again—after Dad, Bill and I had gone into the water like a pack of idiot berks.”

 

Harry twitched away from the uncomfortable sting of the wound closing.  “After Molly helped me, I knew I’d find Ron,” he said.  “I just didn’t expect to him to be with the Siren.  I certainly didn’t expect her attack me.”

 

“What was she like?” asked Hermione greatly interested.  “Has she ever attacked anyone before?”

 

“Oh hell, no,” said Charlie.  “Mum would have sent her packing.  We all thought she was just a benign pretty siren.”

 

“Pretty?” said Harry shuddering.  He remembered the wild face and the sharp ugly teeth.

 

Charlie laughed and Harry got a good whiff of the Firewhisky on the big wizard’s breath and pulled away.  “Are you sure you should be working on me?” he asked Charlie.  “You and Bill seemed pretty dead pissed to me.”

 

“We were certainly heading in that direction,” said Charlie, grinning.  “But me, I’m pretty famous for being able to hold my liquor.  Known on the reservation as a bit of a sponge…think I could even hold my own with Hagrid.”  He winked at Harry.  “Our Bill now…he’s a sloppy drunk.  Sentimental.”

 

Harry nodded, seriously doubting Charlie could keep pace with Hagrid, who after all drank his ale in mugs the size of rain barrels.  He gently cupped Ron’s foot, pleased to feel his mate’s skin warming up.  Bit by bit, his own pain was abating, easing a little more each time Charlie touched a bruise or cut with the wand.  He was however, reeling again with exhaustion.  _I guess that potion only lasts so long,_ he thought, as a wave of dizziness passed over him.  “Did you see her tonight?” he asked Charlie.  “Underwater?”

 

“Dead right, I did,” said Charlie, flicking at a smallish cut on Harry’s arm.  “I’d seen her a few times over the summer…but always from a distance.  First time, she popped her head up while Ginny and I were building the raft.  I nearly wet myself, it was so sudden.  We’d never seen anything in the pond before…suddenly we’ve got a Siren?  Then, hell, when I saw her underwater tonight, I nearly wet myself again, Harry.  She was fucking scary…and mate, she looked like she wanted to cut you to the bone.” Charlie tipped Harry’s head to get at a cut near his ear.  “And she damned near did.”

 

“After you went in the pond, Harry,” said Hermione.  “Molly put her wand in the water.  I don’t know what she said, but three jets of light shot out of her wand.  One went to Arthur, one to Bill and one to Charlie.  They surfaced and she sent them over to the spot she’d marked in the water.  Then, well, she jumped in and I went after her.  Harry,” Hermione’s face was suddenly very serious.  “Something doesn’t make sense.  When Ron Disapparated, I checked my watch.  I checked it again when we got back to the kitchen.  He was underwater a long time.  Ten minutes maybe.  I don’t understand how he could have survived.”

 

Harry felt his heart freeze. “Underwater ten minutes?” he asked incredulously.

 

Hermione nodded.  “At least,” she said.  “More if he Apparated directly under the surface.  That long without oxygen should have given Ron brain damage…but apparently it hasn’t.”

 

There was a crackle and a green whirling in the fireplace.  Fred and George tumbled out.

 

“Ronniekins, brain-damaged?” asked George, looking from the lounge to the kitchen.  He acted as though finding his brother stretched out on the table was nothing new.

 

“Honestly,” put in Fred.  “How would we be able to tell the difference anyway?”

 

When no one answered, the twins seemed to grow uneasy.  They glanced at each other and crossed the room.  “Charlie,” said George, horrified when he caught site of the remaining gashes crossing Harry’s chest and shoulders.  “What the hell happened here?”

 

“Ginny,” Charlie called to Ginny and Dean.  “You wanna catch these arsewipes up?”

 

Ginny’s head jerked up.  Charlie’s voice had surprised her out of a comforting cuddle with Dean.  “No problem,” she said, lifting her face to kiss Dean quickly.  Harry thought her voice had sounded shaky and she continued to hold fast to Dean’s hand.  “This way, arsewipes,” she said beckoning to the twins as she made for the back door.  “I hear there’s a bottle of Firewhisky somewhere in the orchard.”

 

Fred and George followed Ginny and Dean out, shooting confused glances back at the table.  

 

Harry found he’d been squeezing Ron’s foot rather hard.  He saw the white prints of his fingers on Ron’s ankle.  Rubbing the marks away, he glanced up at Charlie.  “How did we get to the kitchen?” he asked, though he had the feeling he already knew.

 

“There was a lot of side-along Apparition, once we’d towed you two back to the bank.” answered Charlie, concentrating on a spot on Harry’s chest.  “I took you while Bill snatched Ron and cracked off like his arse was on fire.  Usually you have to take a step to Apparate but I’m pretty sure Bill did it straight out of the water.”

 

“Apparition, ugh,” said Harry, wincing and smoothing his hand down Ron’s foot.  

 

Charlie chuckled.  “Don’t like it, huh?  Tonight your first time?”

 

“Yeah,” said Harry.  “I suppose it’s convenient but it’s ruddy unpleasant.  Like being squeezed through the devil’s anus.”

 

“Aw,” said Charlie, grinning as he sealed a wound on Harry’s ribs.  “Don’t worry, it gets better.”

 

Suddenly the back door banged open.  Harry glanced up to see Bill stamping in.  “Here’s your wand, mate,” the tall wizard announced, crossing the kitchen and chucking Charlie’s wand at him.  “Took me bloody forever to find it.  The garden gnomes had been at the you-know-what and you won’t believe what they were doing with your wand.”

 

“Eww,” said Charlie, putting the wand gingerly down on the table.  “Maybe I’ll clean it later.”

 

“Oy, Charlie,” said Bill sheepishly.  He stepped up to the table and put his hand on Charlie’s shoulder.  “I’m sorry, mate.  Didn’t mean to be such a shithead.”

 

“Forget it,” answered Charlie, rising to meet him.  He grabbed his brother in a bear hug.  “I’m used to it, you shithead,” he said.  “Besides, I know you love me.”  

 

“Course I love you, you fuckwit,” said Bill gruffly.  He turned his head to Charlie’s and gave him a rough kiss on the cheek.

 

“Aw come on, Billy,” said Charlie, grinning.  “Say it like you mean it.”  He grabbed Bill by the back of the neck, yanked him forward and planted a loud smacking kiss on his brother’s lips.

 

“Don’t know why you don’t go out more,” said Bill laughing and wiping his mouth with his sleeve.  “That was quite a kiss.  Honestly, you could have any one you wanted.”  He stepped back, stomping heavily on Hermione’s foot.

 

“Oy,” said Charlie, “That’s Hermione’s foot, you clot.”  He gave Bill a shove on the shoulder and sent him staggering back a few paces.

 

Bill took a mock swing at Charlie before he turned to Harry.  “All right, Harry?” he asked, coming to stand in front of Harry.  He put one hand on either side of the boy’s knees.

 

Harry nodded.  Feeling suddenly shy of Bill, he studied Ron’s foot, pleased to find the skin had pinked up and lost its clammy feel.  _His foot’s so pale,_ he thought, _not really freckled until here_ —he drew a finger over a faint tan line above Ron’s ankle.  _Must be where his running socks end_.

 

Bill traced his finger over Ron’s tan line too, then caught his brother’s ankle gently.  He seemed to need to touch Ron almost as much as Harry did.  “Harry,” the tall wizard started, huskily.  “I don’t know what to say…”

 

“Forget it,” said Harry, wearily.  Another wave of dizziness passed over him.  

 

“I never will,” said Bill earnestly.  He put his arms gingerly around Harry as though waiting for Harry to tell him to back off.  When Harry didn’t, Bill gathered him in and held him tightly.  “I don’t even want to think about what could have happened,” he whispered roughly into Harry’s ear.  “Without you…” he shivered and pressed his lips to Harry’s temple.  “Thanks, mate…you were brilliant.”  Bill kissed Harry again, then let him go.  

 

A slightly uncomfortable moment followed.  Charlie narrowed his eyes at Bill and Hermione’s intelligent eyes flicked between the two of them.  Harry kept his own eyes on Ron’s foot, deciding it was absolutely beautiful.

 

“Hermione.”  

 

Harry lifted his head.  There was a note of mischief in Bill’s voice.

 

“You were brilliant too…using a Sonorus to call Harry.  I hope you’ll forgive me for being an aled-up arse—and for stomping your foot flat.”  He bent and kissed Hermione quickly on top of her curly head. 

 

“Go on!” said Hermione, flushed and looking pleased.

 

Charlie, however was gaping.  “Bloody hell, Bill,” he said, grabbing Bill by the back of the shirt.  “What happened to your hair?”

 

“Urm, yeah that,” said Bill.  He reached back and took out the tie that held his hair.  

 

Harry did a double-take.  Bill’s long hair was gone.  The thick braid that had hung down his back when Harry had talked to him in the orchard was gone.  Bill’s hair swung forward in waves, barely longer than chin-length.

 

“You never—” Charlie goggled at his brother.  “You did!  You splinched yourself!  You bloody fucking splinched yourself!  Crikey, Bill!” he cried.  “That’s what you get for Apparating like a mad man!”

 

“I reckon,” said Bill, grinning ruefully.  “Guess I wasn’t as careful as I should have been back at the pond.”

 

“Or perhaps you shouldn’t drink and Apparate,” tutted Hermione.  “Why haven’t you put the hair back on?  Do you need help finding it?”

 

“Aw, never mind,” said Bill, shrugging.  “It doesn’t matter.  Mum’s been after me to cut it for ages.”

 

“What?” said Hermione, aghast.  “You don’t mean to just leave it lying there?”

 

“Well, yeah,” admitted Bill.  “Lying there…wherever it is…”

 

“You can’t be serious!” exclaimed Hermione.  She shot to her feet.  “Bill Weasley, you can’t just leave your hair…you can’t leave _any_ part of your body lying about for others to find!  Think of what someone could do!  Add your hair to potions!  Use it in rituals!”

 

“Who’s going to use my hair in rituals?” asked Bill amused.  “Mum?  Well, Fred and George maybe…”

 

“What about Polyjuice!” sputtered Hermione.  “Just one hair and some unsavory character could—”

 

“She’s right, Bill,” said Charlie, a wide grin on his face.  “Mundungus Fletcher is in the Order.  Your hair would be just the ticket for him.  You’d find yourself in no time down at Borgin and Burkes fencing stolen goods.”

 

“This is not funny,” Hermione cried, glaring at Bill and Charlie.  “I cannot believe the two of you!  Well, if you won’t go, Bill, I will!”  She spun on her heel and stormed out of the back door.

 

“Aw, hell,” said Bill, rubbing the back of his neck as though it tickled.  “We can’t let her go out there alone…” He shot a glance at Ron.  “Is he…”

 

“I’ll go after her, Bill,” said Charlie quickly.  “Go on and check on Ron…he’s all right, you’ll see.”

 

“I’ll go,” said a stern voice.

 

Harry looked up.  Mr. Weasley was standing with his arms folded staring at the lot of them.

 

“William, go help your mother,” he ordered, jerking his head back toward the table.  Charles, you finish up with Harry.  I’ll go after Hermione. And Harry,” Mr. Weasley stepped in front of Harry.  

 

_Here we go again,_ thought Harry, so drained he thought he might keel over.

 

“Bless you, Harry,” Mr. Weasley said solemnly.  “For all you did tonight.  You were a godsend, truly.”  Then, looking nothing like the awkward man who had only a few days ago asked stiffly after Harry’s loss, Mr. Weasley leaned in, brushed Harry’s hair back and kissed him tenderly on the forehead.   


 

The bed which was hardly big enough for one now held three.  _Not that it matters_ , thought Harry.  _Ron’s sleeping on top of me and Bill’s not sleeping_.  He glanced up at Bill, who was wedged between the headboard and the wall.  The tall wizard was glowering and sipping from a bottle of Pepperup potion.  Steam poured steadily from his ears, billowing from beneath his odd new haircut.

 

“I still can’t believe your hair, Bill,” Hermione said from the cot. 

 

Bill only grunted and took a small hit from the Pepperup.  His right ear let loose a puff of steam, then seemed to blow a smoke ring.

 

_Hermione sounds smug_ , thought Harry, _though I have no idea why.  Maybe it’s better not to wonder at this point._  He was too tired, in fact, to wonder much of anything.  He was just grateful to be where he was—curled up in Ron’s bed with Ron snuggled up to him.  Harry had been afraid that, with the connection broken, Ron wouldn’t come seeking him in his sleep.  He needn’t have worried.  The moment Bill and Charlie had dumped them on the bed, Ron had twitched and squirmed, rolling in his sleep until he was flush up against Harry.  

 

Of course they’d had to be carried up the stairs.  By the time Mrs. Weasley and Charlie had finished with their healing work, Harry had been swaying with exhaustion and Ron was still lying like a corpse on the kitchen table.  Harry had obediently sipped at the restorative potions Hermione had pressed on him.  While the potions had eased the last of his body aches, Harry knew that nothing less than a full night’s sleep would cure his bone-deep weariness.

 

“I’m done here,” Mrs. Weasley had finally said, sighing.  She gave Ron a final pat on the cheek, then straightened up, groaning and massaging her lower back.

 

Charlie had just finished healing Harry and was now more or less propping the boy up as he sat at the table, sagging over Ron’s foot, which he refused to let go of.  The big wizard had glanced over to admire his mother’s handiwork.  “Brilliant job, Mum,” he’d said.  “Did you have a go at the ones Ronnie gave himself?”

 

“It’s no use,” Mrs. Weasley had said bitterly.  “I tried, but I can’t seem to heal them with magic.  What ever he did to himself…well, we’ll just have to let the poultice do its work.”

 

Bill had climbed up on the table then and held Ron while Mrs. Weasley had performed an Ennervation.

 

When the spell had hit him, Ron’s head rolled, his eyes fluttered.  Then he’d giggled.

 

Bill had exchanged glances with Mrs. Weasley.  “All right, Ron?” he’d asked.

 

“Yeah,” Ron had said thickly.  “But I won’t be dancing with sodding Millicent Bulstrode again any time soon.”

 

Bill had shot a puzzled look at Harry and Hermione.  Hermione had frowned and shook her head; Harry had only shrugged.

 

“Right, Ron,” Bill had said as he’d pulled his brother into his lap and propped his lolling head on his shoulder.  “I wouldn’t dance with her either.  Now Mum has some potions she wants you to drink, all right?”

 

“Hokay,” Ron had agreed.  “’M a little dizzy t’tell you the truth.  Don’t s’pose Fred and George are here?”

 

“Actually, they are,” Bill had said.

 

“Well, there ya havit, then,” Ron had said, his eyes sliding shut.  “Fuckers spun me again.”

 

Harry had raised his head.  “What does he mean by that?” he asked Charlie.  “That’s the second time I’ve heard him say that.”

 

Charlie’d frowned.  “Something they used to do when they were little kids…the bastards.  Don’t think they do it any more.”

 

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Ron had said, slurring and sounding about three days drunk.  “What those twats’ll do t’ me when no one’s lookin’.”

 

“That’s enough, Ron,” Mrs. Weasley had said impatiently.  “Now drink this.”

 

“Righty-ho, Mumsy,” Ron had muttered, cracking an eye open to look at her.

 

Whatever Mrs. Weasley had fed Ron had briefly enlivened him—and loosened his tongue quite a bit.

 

“Know what I’ve always wondered,” he’d said, sitting up suddenly and nearly toppling from the table.  “Why the hell Sirius didn’t just down some Veritaserum to prove he didn’t kill Harry’s parents…instead of going to Azkaban like some kind of sodding martyr.”

 

Hermione had gasped and Charlie had sworn.  Bill had groaned and Mrs. Weasley had flushed, shooting Harry an apologetic look.

 

“Actually,” Harry had said with a mirthless laugh.  “It’s a fair question.”

 

“Well, ministry laws forbid it,” Hermione had started to explain.  “There are whole books on the subject…why tampering issues along—”

 

“And how the hell,” Ron had interrupted, his head falling forward to his chest. “Did He-Who-What’s-His-Name get his wand back?  I thought the bastard was reduced to an evil li’l puffa smoke…puffa smoke can’t carry a wand.”

 

“Oh, Ronald!” Mrs. Weasley had interjected.

 

“Well,” Hermione had said gamely, “some people speculate Peter Pettigrew…”

 

“Oh, Pettigrew,” Ron had said, twirling a hand in the air.  “Now there’s a fast thinker…fat useless rat bastard…’M sure he shat himself and jumped down the nearest hole…”

 

“Well, he did have the wherewithal to set Sirius up,” Hermione had said, thoughtfully.  “He was quite resourceful, if you think about—oh!”  She’d shut up when Charlie’d kicked her.

 

“You wanna shut up now, Ron?” Bill had asked.  “You’re a bit off your head.”

 

“Nah,” Ron had said, waving his hand again and falling drunkenly back against Bill’s chest.  “These things bug me sometimes.  Like how did What’s-His-Arse get his wand back?  Pettigrew couldn’t’d done that.  He was a fuckin’ Weasley by then…livin’ with us, eatin’ our food, sleepin’ with me and Perce…ugh.”  He’d shuddered.

 

“That’s _enough,_ Ronald,” Mrs. Weasley had said.  “I want you to drink one more potion, then it’s up to bed with you.”  She’d forced a cup to his mouth and poured liquid down his throat.

 

Ron had choked then swallowed.  Bill had taken the opportunity to scramble off the table.  “I’ve got him, Mum,” he’d said, scooping Ron up in his arms.

 

“Wait!” yelled Charlie.

 

Harry had yelped when Ron’s foot had suddenly been jerked out of his hand.  He’d felt panic wash over him again…only this time he was watching it from a great distance, watching himself lurch to his feet, reaching again for Ron.  His legs had given out and he’d fallen into space seeing the kitchen floor spin a million miles below him.

 

Charlie had caught him.  “Easy, kiddo,” the big wizard had said. “You’re going too.  Just up the stairs and you can have the foot back…the foot, the arm, the leg, the whole package.”  He’d swung Harry lightly up in his arms.

 

“Put me down,” Harry had protested, his voice slurring.

 

“Oh shut up,” Charlie had said.  “Just enjoy the ride.”

 

So Harry had let Charlie carry him and it had been just as well.  The stairs had been spinning so crazily, Harry had had to close his eyes.  He’d heard Bill’s feet on the stairs and Ron’s voice going on and on, thicker than pea soup.

 

“Why the hell did that dumb fuck go through the aggro a gettin’ t’Harry through th’Triwizard Championship, anyway?  That was a lot of bother, wasn’t it?  Coulda easily had Crouch just set up a Portkey in his office.  And why the hell didn’t Dumbledore notice the snake-eyed twat was sittin’ there on the back a’ Quirrell’s head, huh?  Seems like th’ greatest wizard a all time coulda sniffed that one out…and why do ya think the ministry didn’ notice Hagrid was puttin’ pigtails on Dudley Dursleys, illegal wizard, itn’t he?  Sure as shit noticed when Dobby was throwing puddin’ at Harry’s…”

 

“Shut up, Ron,” Bill had said.  “Just shut up, willya?”

 

“Sure, Billy,” Ron had said.  “Hey, where do ya think banished objects go?  Is there like a big room somewhere…”

 

_Uh huh,_ thought Harry.  _A room with all the missing Muggle socks…_

 

* * *

 

Harry lay in Ron’s bed, listening to Bill and Hermione’s voices cross in the air.  He felt like he’d been tired forever, but no matter how tired he was, he couldn’t sleep.  Sure he’d been happy when Ron had cuddled up to him…it’d made him believe the bond was still there even if the connection was broken.  Still it wasn’t enough…not enough to let him relax into sleep.  He was too new at this bond business.  Without the connection in place, would he wake up if Ron started dreaming again?  He stared at the ceiling, his eyes feeling like they were full of sand.

 

Bill shifted.  He was jammed against the wall.  Harry was on his back in the middle of the small bed.  Ron was curled on his side, his chin on Harry’s shoulder, his nose in Harry’s neck and one arm wrapped around Harry’s waist.  It had become a familiar position for Harry. Hermione was on the cot.  
  
Finally Bill sighed.  “Harry,” he said.  “You’re going to have to sleep.”

 

“I can’t,” said Harry woodenly.  “I mean, I tried but I can’t.  Your mum broke the connection.  I won’t know if he starts dreaming again.”

 

“I’m here.  I promise to wake you.”

 

“No offense but you’re a bit drunk aren’t you?”

 

Bill shrugged.  “I suppose.”  He took another sip of Pepperup and the steam streamed from his ears.

 

“I’m here,” said Hermione.  “And I’m not drunk.”  

 

“No offense,” said Harry.  “But Ron got away from you last time.”

 

“Harry,” said Hermione patiently.  “Just go to sleep.  Between the two of us, I’m sure Bill and I can handle it.”

 

“Right,” said Harry.  He gamely closed his eye.  A second later, they popped open.  Ron had stirred.  Harry tensed.  _Is he dreaming?_

 

Ron muttered something and moved his head restlessly.  

 

Harry turned his own head and suddenly he was nose to nose with Ron.  _I think we started the day this way,_ he thought.  _Or maybe it was some other day.  No, it was before dinner…but I don’t remember what dinner.  All the clocks have truly gone mad in this house.  Point was, I wanted to kiss him then.  Maybe I was going to kiss him, but Hermione came in the room._   He glanced up at Bill.  The tall wizard was looking over his head, gesturing at Hermione.  The two were engrossed in a conversation about Pureblood politics, John Locke and social contracts.  Harry was damned if they were monitoring Ron.  

 

He levered up slightly on one elbow.  Ron’s mouth was inches from his.  He dipped his head and pressed his lips against Ron’s, a long gentle kiss on Ron’s full and cushiony mouth.

 

Ron’s eyes fluttered.  They popped open.

 

Harry blinked.  _Bloody hell,_ he thought.  _Just like Sleeping Beauty.  I kissed him and he woke up just like Sleeping Beauty!  Fuck me, I’m Prince Charming!_

 

Ron’s eyes widened.  “Bloody hell, Harry,” he gasped.  

 

The room went instantly still.  Harry’s stomach did a slow dizzy roll.  He was vaguely aware of Hermione and Bill.

 

“Bloody hell,” said Ron again.  “Bloody hell, Harry, you’re alive!”  His voice was rough and raspy, pure sandpaper.  “I’ve been trying like hell to wake up for the longest time,” he said.  “I was dead certain she’d killed you!”

 

“I know what you mean,” said Harry.  And he did.

 

Ron put his arms around Harry and pulled Harry in tight.  Harry could feel him shaking.  

 

“Honestly, mate,” Ron croaked.  “It’s so good to see you.  I was so fucking scared you were dead, drowned, lost—”

 

If Ron said more, Harry didn’t hear it.  He finally relaxed.  _He’s all right,_ he thought.  _He’s really all right._   Then between one breath and the next, he tumbled.  Dropping his head to Ron’s chest, he fell abruptly and deeply asleep.


	26. Chapter 26

  
Author's notes:

Many thanks to Brumeux, my beta.    
  
I know, I know, it's been a long time since I posted.   And I know, it's time for Dumbledore to arrive.  But first, Harry has something to take care of...  
  
Also, I nicked [](http://shocolate.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://shocolate.livejournal.com/)**shocolate** 's "hush."  Because it gives me the down-deep shivers.  


  
Here's the address for yahoo group for anyone who wants to join:  <http://groups.yahoo.com/group/matildabishopsproxyseries/>  


* * *

Harry was startled awake.  _Am I daft,_ he wondered, _or did my nipples just wake me?  They’re…what?  Itching? Throbbing?_ He squirmed, letting them slide against a hot, slick surface.  

 

“Actually, Plato thought children should be taken from their parents and raised by the community as a whole…one of those for-the-greater-good thingies.   If no one knows which kid is theirs, every kid is treated equally.”

 

“Well, that’s dodgy, isn’t it?  First of all, people would find other ways of discriminating…attractive kids would get more attention…smarter kids, charismatic kids…people will always find ways to exclude others.  Besides, tell me people won’t recognize their own.   Mum would have immediately known her children—”

 

“Oh, come on, Bill…it doesn’t take a genius to pick out a Weasley!”

 

“My point exactly.  People would recognize their kids.  How many times have I heard that Harry looks just like James—”

 

“ _Some_ people would recognize their kids.  _I_ look nothing like my parents.  Besides, I’m not advocating the idea…I just think it raises interesting questions.  What if no one knew if you were Pureblood or Half-blood or Muggle-born?”

 

A laugh.  “Are you really going to restructure our whole social system, Hermione?”

 

“Absolutely.  Would you like to buy a S.P.E.W. button?”

 

Harry stifled a groan.  It would be really nice if Bill and Hermione left now; he wanted to be alone with his nipples.  Never in his life had they ever been so hot, elongated, prickly and in need of attention.  Then, after he took care of his nipples, he’d have to see to the impressive swelling between his legs.  He shifted uncomfortably, biting back another groan.  _This is what I get,_ he thought, _for sleeping half-naked on top of my half-naked mate._

 

Harry lifted his head to look at Ron who was sprawled beneath him—sprawled, that is, as much as one could be in a single bed that held two six-foot-something Weasleys and one five-ten-plus Potter.  _Why am **I** sleeping on top of **Ron**?_ wondered Harry.  **_He’s_** _the one who sleeps on **me** … **he’s** the one who chases **me** around the bed all night_.  It took a moment for him to remember flopping on Ron’s chest and falling into a deep hole of sleep.  

 

“All right, Harry?”

 

“Erm…” Harry said.  Really, he needed a moment to collect himself…to get himself under control.  Thing was, that wasn’t going to happened.  Not when he had his bare chest glued damply to Ron’s bare chest, and an erection the size of the Hindenburg finally making good use of the extra room in Dudley’s old jeans. Harry took a deep breath, fighting the urge to squirm.  

 

Beneath him, Ron slept on.  His face was turned to the side and he looked blessedly peaceful.  He’d wrapped one arm around Harry—Harry could feel the large hand splayed on his lower back—and crooked the other arm above his head.  Harry laid his hand against Ron’s cheek, just to feel the warmth of it.  He felt a swelling inside that had nothing to do with his cock or his nipples.  _Just look at him,_ he thought, sliding his hand from Ron’s face to his hair.  _At the bright bright hair…at the freckles that make him look like a kid.  At the way his top lip curves and the bottom one pouts.  Has it really taken me five years to see him?  See how… **perfect** he is?_   

 

Ron muttered something in his sleep.  He sighed deeply and his bare chest rose, sliding wet and hot against Harry’s.  Harry closed his eyes, wondering which would explode first, his heart or his cock.  Really, he didn’t know whether to trace Ron’s lips with his finger and sing love songs or shove a nipple in his mouth and shout, _suck me, dammit!  Use some tongue!_

 

“Haaaaaaaaaarrry…are you awake?”

 

“Yeah,” Harry said—or tried to.  All that came out was a raspy croak.  He cleared his throat and tried again.  “’M’all right.”  He coughed.  His throat still twinged but the rest of him was all right.  “What time is it?  How long have I been asleep?”

 

“It’s just before daylight, Harry,” said Hermione.  She was sitting cross-legged on the cot just a few feet away.  Even without his glasses on, Harry could see she was alert and animated, nearly vibrating with energy.  

 

_Intellectual conversation with Bill, huh?_ thought Harry, suppressing a snort.  _Bet she’s got a hard-on bigger than mine._

 

“You’ve only slept two or so hours,” Hermione went on.  “You really should go back to sleep.”

 

Harry sighed inwardly. _That’s not bloody likely,_ he thought _, not in the state I’m in._ He propped himself on his elbows.  There was a faint wet pop as his chest detached from Ron’s.  Harry bit his lip.  Whose _brilliant idea was it to put me and Ron to bed without shirts anyway?_ he wondered. _Bill at least should have known better.   No one could be fussed, I suppose, after everything that happened, to offer us fresh shirts._

Ron’s hand moved on his back and Harry shivered again.  With his nipples stinging like doxies were biting them, and—was that a wet spot in his pants?—he was fast approaching a critical moment.  _If I don’t leave soon— **now**_ —he thought.  _There’s going to be an embarrassing accident._   “Getting up,” he croaked to Bill and Hermione. 

 

“Need help?” offered Bill.

 

_Sure,_ thought Harry, _wanna me help carry my colossal bits?_  “No, no,” he said aloud.  “Just going to the loo.”  He rolled off Ron, keeping his back to Hermione.  If anyone was going to see his hard-on—and he was sure they could see it in Brazil—he’d prefer it be Bill.  “Throw me a shirt, Hermione?” he asked, feeling his face heat.  A moment later, something whizzed through the air and flopped on his head.  

 

“Thanks.”  Harry pulled the shirt over his head; it was Ron’s shirts, no question.  Too big for Harry and there was that Cannons logo.  But more than that, the shirt smelled of Ron.  Harry closed his eyes, savoring the heady scent that had comforted him while he’d been too dizzy to know if Ron were dead or alive, and decided Ron was never getting his shirt back.  “I’ll be back, erm…soon,” he told the others, getting clumsily to his feet and grabbing his wand and glasses from the bedside table.  As he sidled out of the room, he heard a low rumble of laughter from Bill.

 

He closed Ron’s bedroom door behind him and hoped his clear _don’t-follow-me_ message would be understood.  Then he hurried to the bathroom and slammed the door, falling back against it.  _Oh fuck,_ he moaned, _I’m not going to make it._   He pointed his wand over his shoulder, quickly sealing the door.  At the same time, he pressed down on his cock, willing it to contain itself.  It was so engorged, it felt like it were undergoing a reverse Apparition.  Instead of the horrible inward compression, there was an intense outward expansion.  _Like when Aunt Marge blew up,_ Harry thought, biting his lip.  _Or when_ _Dudley_ _ate the Ton-Tongue Toffee._   He stumbled toward the toilet, giving it a stern look as he tugged at his zip.  “Not a word from you,” he said.  

 

“Not a word,” promised the toilet.  “My lips are sealed.”

 

“God,” moaned Harry, as he opened his jeans.  He freed his cock, which was heavy, hot, acutely sensitive and, like his nipples, throbbing insistently.  He caught a fat dollop of pre-come and coated himself.  Then, putting his hand under the shirt that smelled so richly of Ron, he pinched and pulled at one nipple.  Unable to stifle his groans, he quickly stuffed the shirt in his mouth.  His hand moved roughly on his cock, alternating hard squeezes with up and down strokes.  He wanted to last longer, but his body was already shaking, nipple pushing into the pinching fingers, and cock thrusting into the wet hand.  Biting down on the shirt, Harry bent his knees and shot.  A stream of ejaculate exploded from his cock and spattered against the toilet bowl.  Harry went up on his toes as the orgasm seemed to go on endlessly.  Finally, it was over, the final shudders like the last sudden sparks after a firework display.

 

“Honestly,” said the toilet, “If I had hands, I’d applaud.  Really.  That was spectacular.”

 

Harry fell against the wall, holding himself up with one hand, breathing hard through his nose like a bull.  _That,_ he thought, _was intense.  If I get that turned on by sleeping with Ron when he’s half-naked, what’s it going to be like when…_ Harry stopped, suddenly unsure.  He straightened up and pushed his glasses, which had slid down his nose, back into the place _.  It is going to happen, isn’t it?  I’m mean, I’m falling in love, but is he?  He’s snuggling up to me and letting me pet him…but he lets Bill pet him.  Blimey, I hope he isn’t just thinking of me as some sort of best mate/brother hybrid.  If he is,_ Harry scowled as he tucked himself back into his pants, _I’ll bloody kill him._

 

“Problems, dear?” asked the toilet sympathetically.  “That was such a solemn pause.  My Weasley boys are usually so relaxed and chipper after they toss.”

 

Harry had a sudden uneasy feeling.  “You’re gabby,” he remarked to the toilet, fingering his wand.  “Wouldn’t tell on me, would you?” _If it says yes_ , he thought, _I’ll hex it like it was Draco Malfoy.  I’ll blow it up.  Say it was an accident and buy the Weasleys a new one…one that has an orange seat and plays the Cannons fight song.  I’m not having this thing blab the details of my wank with the next person who wanders into the bathroom._

 

“Love,” said the toilet with a little gurgle.  “With all the secret-keeping charms I’ve had put on me, it’s a wonder I can talk at all.”

 

“Good,” said Harry, returning his wand to his hip pocket.  “Flush then, please.”

 

The toilet obligingly flushed.  Over its gushing, Harry heard a heavy thud in the hall.  Then, Hermione’s voce squeaked, “oh, Ron, wait, do” as something thumped jarringly against the door.  The knob rattled.

 

Harry glowered at the door.  _I just bloody finished,_ he thought, crossly.  _What’s a bloke got to do to get a private moment around here_?  He glanced down at his jeans to make sure it wasn’t painfully obvious he’d just tossed and grimaced when he saw the teeth marks and wet crumple he’d left on Ron’s shirt.  _Oh, brilliant,_ he thought as he tried to flatten it.  

 

“Erm, Harry?”  Hermione’s voice was tentative.  Harry reckoned she’d rather be riding a thestral than talking to him through the bathroom door right now.  “We have a little problem—oh!  Ron!”

 

_Problem? Ron?_ Harry’s head jerked up and he forgot the wet spot on the shirt.  _What’s he doing now?_ He lunged for the door, pulling his wand.  _Dammit, Weasley_ , he thought, _if you’re climbing, glowing or even thinking about Apparating, I swear to God I’ll tie you to my leg._   

 

“Alohomora!”

 

BAM!

 

The door flew open.  It caught the edge of Harry’s glasses, sent them sailing, and Ron tumbled into the bathroom.  

 

Harry had just a moment to glimpse the flying red hair and the pale blur of Ron’s bare torso before his mate barreled right into him.  He heard himself squawk as his feet flew out from under him and his arms flailed, scooping the air wildly for balance.  For a moment he seemed to hang in the air and he had the mad thought that someone had been quick enough to perform some kind of levitation charm.  The next moment, he and Ron crashed heavily to the floor.

 

A few seconds passed before Harry was able to breathe again.  Spots danced in his eyes and the room seemed to spin.  He felt like his ribs were being crushed.

 

“For pete’s sake, Ron,” said a loud voice.  “You didn’t have to tackle him.”  Harry looked up to see Bill’s blurry face so far above him it looked like a balloon on a string.  

 

Ron only grunted in response.  His head was next to Harry’s and his hair was all over the left side of Harry’s face.  Harry pushed the hair aside, pulling a few strands out of his mouth.  He could hear Ron’s ragged breathing right in his ear and his mate’s heart seemed to be pumping too fast.

 

Bill squatted next to them.  “You all right, Harry?” he asked.  

 

“Urm, sorta,” said Harry, still in shock.  _I was just wanking,_ he thought blankly, _then, everyone came bursting into the bathroom.  I wonder if there’s such a thing as a Summoning Wank._  Ron squirmed suddenly, driving Harry’s spine rather hard into the tile.  “Ow,” groaned Harry, feeling a sharp elbow sink into his midriff.  “What are you doing, mate?”    

 

Ron didn’t answer.  He shoved an arm under Harry’s neck and slid down so his head rested on Harry’s chest.  He wriggled again, then sighed contentedly

 

Harry had a sudden realization.  “Don’t tell me you’re going back to sleep!” he exclaimed.  “Ron, we’re in the bathroom, not in bed!”

 

“S’all right, ’m fine,” mumbled Ron.  His voice was so hoarse it sounded like it had been dragged over gravel.

 

Harry sighed and shifted so Ron’s hipbone wasn’t digging into his thigh. _I rather like him following me around the bed,_ he thought.  _But this is ridiculous._   Still, he found himself wrapping his arms around Ron and patting his back tolerantly.  

 

“Come on, kid,” said Bill, tugging at Ron.  “Sit up.  You’re squashing Harry.”

 

“Nuh uh,” said Ron, sliding his other arm under Harry’s shoulder and locking his wrists.  He tightened his grip as Bill tugged at him again, and caught one of Harry’s legs between his own, squeezing.  His ribcage pushed against Harry’s groin.  

 

_Brilliant_ , thought Harry, feeling his cock respond and his face flush.  _Now I’m half-way to another hard-on.  If he keeps squirming, I’m going to need another private moment._   “Hey, Ron,” he said, rubbing his mate’s back lightly.  “Lemme up.  Everything’s all right.”

 

“S’not all right,” muttered Ron against his chest.  “Not all right at all.  I didn’t like that spider.”

 

“Spider, Ron?” said Hermione.  She plopped down on the floor next to them and handed Harry his glasses.

 

“Thanks.”  Harry jammed his glasses back on and the room jumped into focus.  He saw the bathroom ceiling, a towel rack with a towel and Bill and Hermione’s bemused faces.  He saw the brilliant top of Ron’s head on his chest.  “Did you say spider, Ron?” he asked.

 

Ron nodded slightly.  “Yah, big fuckin’ spider.”  He coughed and continued, his voice hoarser than ever.  “Came out of the water an’ pulled you under.  We were just sorta floating, you know…I thought we were going to have a picnic and chase butterflies…then… _chomp_.”  He squeezed Harry.

 

“Harry.”  Hermione’s eyes met his.  “He sounds as bad as you did earlier,” she remarked, one eyebrow arching.  “Shall I fetch him some of that potion?”

 

“Yeah,” said Harry faintly.  “That might be good.”

 

It took a bit of prodding, tugging and cajoling because Ron was perfectly content to go on pretending Harry was a mattress, but Harry and Bill finally managed to get him up-right and propped against the wall.  He refused to let go of Harry’s hand, however, and his head drooped forward.  “Fuckin’ spider,” he muttered.  “Hairy legs, clicky-clicky pinchers.”

 

“He sounds barmy,” muttered Bill, worriedly, holding Ron’s shoulders to keep him from toppling over.

 

Harry scooted to the wall and settled himself next to Ron.  Ron promptly slumped against him and slid down so his head rested against Harry’s arm.  He closed his eyes and threaded his fingers with Harry’s.  Bill looked like he didn’t know whether to be worried or amused.  “Hermione’s right,” Harry told him.  “Ron _is_ like I was earlier.  That potion should put him right.  But”—he pulled Ron’s hand into his lap and studied the long freckled fingers—“I do know how he feels.  “Earlier…after everything…I had a hard time believing he was alive.  I, um”—he shrugged—“needed to be touching him.  I got really panicky when I wasn’t.  If that makes any sense.”

 

Bill sighed heavily and ran his hand through Ron’s hair.  “It makes too much sense,” he said, grimacing.  “I was pretty panicky, myself.  Thought you were both dead.  You know, Harry,” he added, glancing up.  “I’ve seen some pretty weird things.  I’ve been attacked by mummies in the Pyramids, I’ve been buried to the neck in rubble in the catacombs.  But nothing’s ever scared me the way tonight did.  Work’s dangerous…but it’s work.  You bring some detachment along with your wand, counter-hexes and poison antidotes.  When it’s family, well—”  He let his hand fall from Ron’s hair.  “Like Charlie pointed out, I pretty much lost my head.”

 

Harry nodded, uncomfortable thoughts floating through his head.  _Family makes you lose your head…one of these days I won’t be able to afford to lose my head._ He absently rubbed the back of Ron’s hand with this thumb.  

 

Ron grunted.  “That’s nice, Harry,” he sighed.  “Thought you were dead, you know?”

 

“Did you?” said Harry, feeling a funny tickle in his stomach.  He squeezed Ron’s hand. 

 

“Dead right, he did,” Bill interjected.  “When he woke up and you weren’t there, he went absolutely spare.  Hermione and I kept saying ‘Harry’s in the loo’ but he didn’t seem to take it in.  His eyes were darting around…he looked a bit mad, really.”

 

“Shut up,” said Ron thickly.  He was heavy against Harry’s arm and he seemed too tired to move.  “Don’t talk about me.  Makes me feel mental”—he coughed—“and I already feel mental enough, right?”  He coughed again, a wet muddy bark that rattled in his lungs.

 

“You want mental,” said Harry.  “You should have heard me, mate.  I thought Hermione was Dolores Umbridge.”

 

“That _is_ mental,” said Ron.  He coughed again and this time didn’t seem to be able to stop.  He doubled up, falling half into Harry’s lap, one arm holding his ribs.  Bill snatched the towel from the rack and handed it to him.  Ron held the towel to his mouth, coughing, his back heaving.

 

“Aw, fuck,” said Bill, frowning.  “This is too much like earlier.”  He had his hand on the back of Ron’s head and was helping him hold the towel to his mouth.  “Fuck,” he said again when Ron kept coughing.  “You don’t reckon,” he asked, glancing up at Harry, “he’s bringing up more mirror?”

 

“Dunno,” said Harry, worriedly.  He was holding Ron loosely to keep him from spilling on to the floor.  “Maybe.  I guess we’ll have to look.”

 

“Shut it, you two,” Ron wheezed between coughs.  “Said I feel mental enough already.”  He was shivering now and when Harry rubbed his bare back, he felt like he was scooping up handfuls of cold sweat.

 

By the time Hermione finally returned with the potion, Ron was coughing so violently, Harry was sure he had the whole Mirror of Erised lodged in his throat.  And he was feeling so panicky himself he felt like snatching the potion from Hermione and downing it in one go.  But he helped Bill haul Ron up so Hermione could ease a bit of the potion in his mouth.  Ron choked, spit and sprayed them all, but finally he managed to swallow enough potion down to stop the coughing.  

 

“Ow,” Ron said a few minutes later, slumping back against the wall and panting slightly.  My throat feels like I’ve been chewing nails.”  He eyed the mug in his hand suspiciously.  “This isn’t some of Fred and George’s, is it?  I don’t fancy green hair or feathers.”

 

Harry laughed, more from relief than anything else.  Ron’s eyes were clear and while his voice was still raspy, it no longer sounded like his vocal chords were coated with mud.     

 

Bill looked relieved too.  He put his hand lightly on Ron’s jaw and turned his face to Harry.  “Oy, open your mouth, Ron,” he said, “let Harry have a look inside.”

 

“What the fuck—is Harry a Muggle dentist now?” Ron asked irritably, batting Bill’s hand away.  Then he did a double take and his mouth fell open so wide Harry could clearly see there were no mirror shards inside.  “Holy shit, Bill!” Ron said, goggling.  “What happened to your hair?”

 

Bill laughed out loud.  “Would you believe I splinched it?” he said, ruffling Ron’s own hair.

 

“Splinched it?” said Ron, dumbfounded.  “No way!  You’re winding me up!  You never splinch yourself!”

 

“Did tonight,” said Bill chuckling ruefully.  “Think I’ll lose my Apparating license?”

 

“Blimey, Bill,” said Ron, shaking his head.  “Splinched—you must have been stoned, pissed or really hacked off.”

 

“Or maybe all three,” said Bill, his grin fading.  He glanced at Harry.  “Guess he needs some filling in.  Wanna do the honors, Harry?”

 

Harry nodded.  He felt like Bill was reading his mind.  He wanted to be alone with Ron.

 

“Right,” said Bill, getting to his feet.  “Come on, Hermione,” he said, putting his hand out to help her up.  “Let’s go.”

 

“What?” said Hermione.  She looked surprised.  “But I—”

 

“Come on,” said Bill, leaning forward and seizing her by the wrist.  “Dad has a book I think you’ll like.  Called From Socrates to Rousseau, A Wizard’s Guide to Muggle Philosophy.  It’s been charmed to debate philosophy with readers, right?  It’ll do Plato, Aristotle, St. Augustine ’til the cows come home.  It’s absolutely ancient though so you have to stick to the classics.  You bring up Sartre, Nietzsche, anyone it doesn’t know and it gets sulky.  Goes on about how thick you are.”  He steered Hermione toward the door.  She glanced back at Harry and Harry thought she looked hurt.

 

Ron snorted.  “You’ll love that book, Hermione,” he said.  “It sounds just like Professor Binns, only twice as boring.  Fred and George have a go at it sometimes and it gets downright rude.  Pretty funny, actually.”  

 

Bill followed Hermione into the hall.  “Give a shout if you need anything,” he said as he closed the bathroom door.

 

Ron got to his feet, groaning.  He stretched, scratching himself and moving stiffly toward the toilet.  Harry found his eyes wandering over Ron’s bare back, following the strong line of his shoulders, the narrowing of his waist.

 

“What’s the betting,” Ron said grumpily, as he flipped up the toilet seat. “Bill and Hermione put a glass to the wall to listen in?”

 

Harry felt a pang as he remembered Hermione saying that he and Ron would move on without her.  _It’s starting,_ he thought, feeling for her and knowing it was just a matter of time before Ron had one of his blunt axe moments and said something that would make her feel even more excluded.  “Oh, they won’t bother with a glass,” he said.  “Not when they can use Extendable Ears.”  

 

“Oh, right,” said Ron over an impressive stream of urine.  “Let’s just hope Fred and George haven’t passed out the recording type yet.  God knows I’ll be the last one to get one.  Bastards never give me anything.”  He shook off and moved to the sink.  “Where the hell’s my toothbrush?  I feel like I have green scum on my tongue.”  

 

Ron brushed his teeth and then offered the toothbrush to Harry.  As Harry brushed, he could feel Ron hovering behind him.  He was so close Harry could almost feel the air heating between them.  _He’s going to do something,_ Harry thought, his stomach rolling.  _He’s going to touch me_.

 

Ron’s arm slipped around Harry’s waist.  “Harry,” he said tentatively.

 

Harry felt goose-bumps rise on his arms.  He spat in the sink and wiped his mouth.  In the mirror, he could see Ron’s face behind his.  Ron was chewing his lip and his expression was clouded.

 

“Warn a bloke, next time, willya?” said Ron gruffy.  His other arm slid around Harry’s waist.  “Don’t just get out of bed without telling me, all right?”  He laid his cheek against the back of Harry’s head and sighed.  His arms tightened.  “Bill was right, you know,” he admitted.  “I did kind of act like a nutter, Harry, when I woke up and you weren’t there.”  Even with Ron’s body warming him from shoulder to calves, Harry felt a chill run through him.  

 

“I’m sorry, Ron,” he said, turning in Ron’s arms and pulling him into an embrace.  “I know exactly how you felt.”  He did.  With Ron’s body flush against his, with Ron’s hair tickling his face, all he could think about was how comforting it was to stand with him…to feel him alive, warm and responsive…to feel his thumping heart, hear his easy breathing.  

 

They stood together for a long moment, Harry deciding Ron’s shoulder was the perfect place to lay his head.  Just the right height, just the right width, and smelling wonderfully of Ron, and there was the lovely, vulnerable throat just inches away from his lips.  _Let’s just stay here,_ he thought.  _Stand here until our legs give out._ He pictured the Weasleys traipsing in and out the bathroom, going about their business while he and Ron stood together like two horses in a field, heads over each other’s shoulders.  _Ron must fancy me,_ he thought.  _Would he hold me like this if he didn’t?_

 

After a while, Ron spoke, his voice rough, rumbling in his chest.  “Harry,” he said, softly, “Sounds pathetic, but I was _scared_ when you weren’t there.  I’d been dreaming…had so many horrid images in my head…unfelt a bit unhinged to tell you the truth.  So when I woke up and you weren’t there, I about pissed myself.”  He laughed sheepishly and shook his head.  “Pathetic.”

 

“Can’t blame you,” said Harry, fervently.  He pulled Ron tighter.  “I about pissed, too, when you Disapparated—”

 

_“What?”_   Ron went rigid in his arms.  “When I _what_?”

 

“Disapparated,” said Harry, slowly, feeling his heart freeze.  _He doesn’t know,_ he thought.  _Doesn’t he remember anything?_   “Disapparated, mate…into the pond.”

 

Ron twisted away and fell against the wall.  His face was the color of whey and he looked like he might throw up.  “Bugger me,” he said softly, sliding down the wall to the floor.  “I thought it was a dream.”

 

* * *

 

Harry sat on the floor next to Ron, wondering if he should fetch another dose of potion.  Ron had drawn into himself like a turtle into its shell.  His knees were pressed to his chest and his arms rested on them, hiding his face.  He hadn’t spoken in what seemed to Harry a long time.  _Come on, mate_ , he thought.  _Can’t go over it, can’t go under it.  We gotta go through it._   

 

Finally Ron sighed and picked up his head.  He looked at Harry with bloodshot eyes.  He seemed resigned.  “Right,” he said, letting his head fall back against the wall.  “Wanna tell me what happened?” 

 

Harry told it as bluntly and thoroughly as he could, everything he remembered or had been told, starting with the startling Disapparition.  As he spoke, he realized his eyes were lingering on the skin of Ron’s back, rounded as he leaned forward on his knees.  _So pale except where it’s freckled,_ thought Harry.  _Like milk and cinnamon._

 

Ron didn’t look at Harry.  He didn’t look anywhere.  His hand wandered down and picked at the hem of his pajamas until he found a thin spot to worry.  By the time Harry had gotten to the part about the Siren flashing out of the dark and knocking the wand out of his hand, Ron had made a hole in his pajamas.  “Fuck, Harry,” he muttered as Harry told briefly about being attacked repeatedly by the Siren as he fought to get himself and Ron to the pond’s surface.  “I damn near killed both of us.”

 

“Not you, idiot,” said Harry.  “The Siren.”

 

“Much of a muchness,” Ron muttered.  “ _I_ apparently Apparated down to her.  Not that I can Apparate.”  He looked at Harry with his eyes narrowed.  “Are you sure I Apparated?” 

 

“Dead sure,” said Harry.  “Saw you myself.  Everyone did—Hermione used a Sonorus to call us when you climbed again.”

 

“Climbed again!”  Ron swore so violently the mirror and the toilet both tutted. “Climbed,” he repeated in disgust.  “What kind of freak can’t even go to sleep without worrying he’ll wander out the window?  That’s just the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard of.  Fucking Gerard!”  He swore again, tugging at the leg of his pajamas until the cloth ripped to the knee.

 

Harry didn’t want to discuss climbing at the moment.  He reckoned that when Dumbledore came, he’d find a way to extract that along with Flint’s memories.  He had other questions.  “Ron,” he said.  “Do you know why you went?  Down to the Siren, I mean.”

 

“Yeah,” said Ron dully.  “She called me.  You know, she sang.  And called me.  I thought it was a dream.” 

“Oh,” said Harry, suddenly getting it.  “Of course!  She’s a Siren.  That’s what they do, they sing to enchant men.  Of course she could call you.  They’re like Veelas…they have powers of enchantment over men.”

“And everyone knows I’m pants when it comes to Veelas,” sighed Ron.  “But what would a Siren want with me?”

 

“You don’t remember?” Harry asked.

 

“No,” said Ron, shaking his head.  He absently picked at his pajamas again, working the tear until it was above his knee.  “I remember dreaming,” he said, frowning.  “And she was singing.  It was the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard.  I felt wonderful.  But then everything changed.  It was dark and cold and hard to breath.  I _could_ breathe…but it was like sucking air through a straw.  It hurt and it took ages to black out.”  His voice trailed off as he turned to look at Harry.  “Did I really Disapparate?” he asked, his eyes wide in his pale face.  “Into the pond?”

 

Rather than answer, Harry pointed his wand at Ron’s pajama leg.  “ _Reparo_.”  

 

Ron blinked in surprise as the tear in his pajamas zipped itself closed.

 

“You and your nervous habits,” said Harry, thinking of all the times he’d seen Ron absently mangle, shred or squash something.  “If I’d let you keep going, you would have been naked in half a minute.  I’d rather not get distracted right now if you don’t mind.”

 

“Distracted?”  Ron looked puzzled.

 

_Yes, distracted, you idiot,_ thought Harry.   _It’s enough that you’re without a shirt, do you have to go ripping your bottoms off too?  You picked a hell of a time, Potter,_ he told himself, _to start fancying a bloke.  Especially one who’s as thick as a plank._   

 

Ron was still looking at him.  He was chewing his lip again.

 

“Never mind,” said Harry, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “Right, then, the Siren called you, mate, because she had something to give you.  Or to give anyone.  Maybe she just put out a call and you were the one who responded—”

 

“Yeah, I’m the arse who responded,” said Ron bitterly.  “Because I’m the pathetic git who goes slack-jawed around Veelas—”

 

“Come off it, Ron,” said Harry impatiently.  “What does it matter any way?”

 

“What does it matter?” cried Ron.  “I’m supposed to be helping you against…against, You Know Who.  Me and Hermione.  I’m your, you know”—he waved his hands—“your second and Hermione’s research.  What if the word gets out I’m useless against Veelas?  We’d be done for.  All You-Know-Who has to do is wave a Veela at me!”

 

Harry couldn’t help laughing.  The rather silly picture of Voldemort dressed like Fleur Delacour with long silvery hair had popped into his mind.  _If only Voldemort was a boggart,_ he thought, _I could just laugh at him_.  “Tell you what, mate,” he said to Ron.  “If that’s honestly worrying you, I’m sure there are Veela protection spells.  Why don’t we have Hermione research it?”  

 

Ron snorted.  “Wouldn’t she love that?  She’d love to inoculate the entire male population against Veelas, Hermione.”

 

“She would at that,” said Harry grinning.  He had a curious feeling of warmth spreading through his chest and stomach.  _My second?_ he thought.  _He_ s _till thinks of himself as my second, does he?_ It was a bittersweet warmth, all the same.  Harry felt his grin fade.  _I’m going to have to tell him about the prophecy soon,_ he thought.  _Tell him that when Voldemort and I meet, there won’t be any seconds._

 

“Ron,” he said, suddenly finding he needed to get the story finished.  “The Siren called you because she had something to give you.  She gave you a mirror.  She put a mirror in your mouth.”

 

“A mirror?” Ron goggled at him.  “In my mouth?  Why would she put a mirror in my mouth?”

 

Harry shrugged.  “Because you didn’t have any pockets?  She just needed you to get the mirror to your mum somehow—”

 

“Oh,” said Ron, smacking himself in the forehead.  “Oh buggerfuck, I remember now.”  He shivered in revulsion.  “She kissed me.  A really nasty, slimy kiss…really cold…honestly, I would have preferred the Giant Squid.”

 

“She passed you the mirror with a kiss?” Harry felt himself scowl.  He didn’t like to think of the creature he’d seen, with its wild face and sharp teeth, kissing Ron.  “No wonder your mouth was bleeding.”

 

“Yeah.”  Ron made a face.  “Ugh, makes me want to brush my teeth again.”  He shuddered again.  “But why did the Siren need to get a mirror to my mum?”

 

“It wasn’t just any mirror, Ron,” said Harry.  “It was Gerard Flint’s mirror.  Hermione and I heard your mum and dad talking about it.  Flint enchanted it twenty-five years ago to find your mum and the magic is still working.  Somehow it put itself back together down in the bottom of the pond.  It enchanted the Siren and she enchanted you.  It’s pretty strong magic if you think about it.”

 

“Dark magic,” said Ron bleakly.  “Figures.  Bill says Dark magic only gets worse with time.  S’why the Pyramid curses are so wicked.  Harry,” he pulled his knees up to his chest again and Harry thought he looked young and frightened, “this is so fucked.”

 

“Right, but it’s almost over,” said Harry in a bracing voice.  “We just need a bit of sleep and then, Dumbledore’ll be here before you know it.  He’ll pull Flint out of your head—”

 

“Sleep?  Oh, no, Harry, can’t do that,” moaned Ron.  He rubbed his eyes with his fists, looking suddenly utterly exhausted.  “Too chancy.  If the Siren can make me Apparate into the pond, _when I’m asleep,_ for fuck’s sake, what else can happen?  I’m bloody dangerous, I am.  Here’s what we’ll do—just keep moving until Dumbledore gets here.  Go running, whatever.  You can use those stinging hexes.  I just can’t go to sleep, that’s all.  All right?”  He looked up with such a wild look in his eyes, Harry was alarmed.  

 

“Hold on, Ron,” said Harry, putting his hand on his mate’s arm. “I’ve got a better idea.  We’ll do magic again.  Together.”

 

“Harry, no!”  Ron jerked his arm away as though Harry had laid a tarantula on it.  “No way!”  He jumped to his feet, retreating until his back hit the sink.  “I told you how I felt about bonding.”  He turned away from Harry, bracing his arms against the sink and leaning on them.  His head was down.  “Listen, mate, it’s not like I don’t want to be your bond mate.  It’ll be brilliant, really.  It’s just that it’s so bloody intimate and I feel so gross inside—”

 

“Ron—” Harry started.  He felt like someone was tying barbed-wire around his heart and slipping ice cubes into his stomach.

 

“You know how I feel about this business with Dumbledore.”  Ron continued as if Harry hadn’t spoken.  “The thought of him poking around in my head…I’d rather eat bubotuber pus.  I don’t know how to explain it.”  He picked up a tube of toothpaste and passed it from hand to hand.  “It just feels wrong.”  He absently squashed the tube, squeezing a long ribbon of paste out and over his fingers.  “I wanna…I don’t know….run away.”

 

“Ron, I _know_ ,” whispered Harry, watching Ron toss the tube to the side and suck some toothpaste off his fingers.  He remembered how awful it had been to have Snape cutting into his own mind.  It had hurt, it had made him sick, and brought him to tears more than once.  Harry suspected Snape hadn’t been particularly gentle, in fact had probably gone out of his way to make the process as humiliating and painful as possible…still what Dumbledore would have to do to Ron would be far more involved, and even more invasive, no matter how carefully he tread.

 

“But the only thing worse,” Ron went on, “than having Dumbledore poke around in my head is letting Gerard stay there.”  He caught Harry’s eye in the mirror and made a face.  “Mate, if I could only put a hose in my ear and wash that fucker out.  He’s vile…just bloody vile.” Ron finally turned to look at Harry.  “You know,” he said quietly, “I haven’t trusted my own magic.  That’s why I sent my wand to Hermione…I don’t feel safe.”

 

“I know you don’t feel safe, Ron,” said Harry, looking steadily up at Ron.  “But bonding is the only thing that will make _me_ feel safe.  Listen,” he said, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice, “we used the connection for three days to keep you from cutting yourself…when you started doing your Gerard bit in your sleep, the connection woke me up.  You didn’t climb when you were with me, did you?”  

 

Ron shook his head.

 

“Ron,” Harry went on.  “You are right, you know…something else _could_ happen.  But if we’re connected, that gives me a heads-up, right?  A chance to stop it.  I don’t wanna to see you at the bottom of the pond again…I don’t wanna be there, myself.  It was fucking scary…and she _did_ nearly kill us both.  I’d just feel tons safer, mate,” he added softly, “if you’d bond with me.”

 

Ron lifted his head and stared at the ceiling.  He chewed his lip anxiously and Harry reckoned he was trying to think of some way, _any way_ to say no.  

 

“All right,” Ron finally said, looking resigned.  “Put it that way and you got me over a barrel.”  He shoved himself away from the sink and came to sit next to Harry against the wall.  

 

“I’m sorry, Ron,” said Harry.  “I wouldn’t be twisting your arm if I didn’t…”  Harry let the words die in his mouth.  He knew he was lying.  He’d do about anything to bond.  _Maybe even tell Ron it would save me from Voldemort if I had to,_ he thought _._   Truth was, he felt like he’d had a hole in his chest ever since Mrs. Weasley broke the connection.  “We don’t have to do anything intense, mate,” he said, apologetically.  “Just something simple…something to get the connection back.  All right?”  

 

Ron nodded.  His left arm was pressed against Harry’s wand arm.  He stretched it out and offered it to Harry.  “I’m right-handed,” he said.  “But I don’t think matters as long as I’m willing.”  He sighed.  “Come on, then, what are we going to do?”

 

“Thanks, mate,” said Harry.  He felt devious, underhanded, manipulative and as relieved as if he’d slunk out of a well-deserved detention.  He pulled his wand before Ron could change his mind and said, “just put your hand on top of mine.”

 

Ron put his hand on top of Harry’s and curled his fingers around Harry’s on the wand.  “Go on,” he said.  “I’ll just follow your lead.”

 

“Right,” said Harry.  “This is something I’ve tried on my own but have never been able to get right.  It’s the thing Riddle did in the Chamber.”  He lifted their joined hands into the air.  Almost immediately he felt a warmth, a little jolt of electricity flowing from Ron’s hand to his.  “What are you doing?” he asked, surprised.

 

“Nothing,” said Ron, looking surprised himself.  “Just”—he shrugged—“being willing, I suppose.”

 

Harry felt his stomach tighten.  A delicious shivery sort of anticipation rolled through him.  He felt giddy, thrilled and expectant, like Christmas was breaking and he was about to get something wonderful.  “Watch now,” he said excitedly to Ron.  “I’m just going to write our names in the air.”

 

“S _criptium,”_ he said, tracing the wand slowly through the air.  He wrote three shimmering words:

 

Harry and Ron

 

He heard Ron chuckle and felt a thrum of energy under his fingers.  _That’s Ron,_ he thought.  _That’s his magic._   Their names hung in the air, silvery, sparkling.

 

“ _Mutatius_.”  Harry passed the wand over the shining letters.  “It’s working,” he cried as the letters rearranged themselves.  

 

Ah Ann Dry Or

 

“Ah Ann Dry Or?” said Ron, cocking his head.  His hand on top of Harry’s, his bare arm pressed against Harry’s, were warm.  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

 

“Nothing,” said Harry, elation sparking in his belly.  He laughed and his hand tingled.  “Let’s try again.”

 

“If you say so,” said Ron.  His voice sounded lighter, holding a hint of amusement.

 

Harry passed the wand over the letters again.  “ _Mutatius_.”

 

A Dry Horn Ran

 

“That one almost makes sense,” said Ron.  He chuckled and Harry felt a ripple of energy run through his wand hand.  He laughed, feeling his giddiness building as he passed the wand over the letters again and again.

 

Handy Ran Orr

 

Hand Ryan Orr

 

The letters flashed, changing each time Harry passed the wand and their joined hands over them.  His hand under Ron’s felt charged with electricity and they were both giggling madly now as the nonsensical phrases bobbed in the air, hanging ridiculously over the toilet and reflecting back in the mirror.  

 

Danny Rah Orr

 

Yard Ran Horn.

 

Harry was laughing so hard, his stomach hurt.  A ludicrous picture had entered his mind:  young Tom Riddle, his face screwed up in concentration, trying to make something magnificently terrible out of his wanky little name.  _He probably got **I am** **Rod Revoltmold** or **Lord** **T. Moldover** ,_ Harry thought gasping, _before he managed Voldemort._   He clutched his ribs, wanting to tell Ron but he was laughing too hard to speak.  The thought popped into his head again:  _If I could laugh like this at Voldemort, the fucker’s head would bloody explode._

 

Ron was looking at Harry, laughing too, probably just because Harry was in such paroxysms. “If you don’t calm it down, mate,” he said, grinning, “Bill and Hermione will knock down the door.”  He looked at the last phrase twinkling above them.

 

  Yard Ran Horn.

 

“There’s that horn word, again,” he commented.  “What we need is horny.”  

 

“Wait, wait,” said Harry, gasping for breath and holding up the hand that wasn’t linked with Ron’s.  “I got it.”  He guided their hands over the words, using the wand tip to prod letters here and there.  He poked one N hard with the wand tip and it broke into shining sparkles that fell shimmering before they winked out.  “There,” he crowed triumphantly.  “All we had to do was lose one N.”  He grinned as he looked at the new words hanging in the air.

 

Horny Radar

 

“Horny Radar,” said Ron slowly.  He seemed transfixed by the shiny words. 

 

“You do know what radar is, don’t you?” asked Harry.  Their hands sank a bit but they were still joined and the wand was still pointing up.    

 

“Sure.  It’s one of those Muggle things, like bugs, that don’t work around Hogwarts, right?  According to Hermione and Hogwarts, A History.”

 

“That’s right,” said Harry nodding eagerly.  “It allows you to see things you normally wouldn’t be able to see.”

 

“Harry,” said Ron, shooting Harry a sly glance.  “We’re sixteen.  I think our Horny is pretty much out there for anyone to see.”

 

Harry felt another huge laugh building.  When it burst out of him like some kind of hee-haw, Ron was suddenly laughing as hard as Harry.  He nudged Harry with his shoulder.  “You’re something, mate,” he gasped, wiping his eyes with his free hand.  
  


That’s when Harry felt it.  Something more than an electrical jolt, more than the energy of Ron’s magic meeting his.  Something he’d felt once before…downstairs in the kitchen when he and Ron had done the healing song for Mrs. Weasley.  He felt it, that golden, liquid thing rolling through him, filling him up with sweetness…with all light, all peace and well-being.

 

“Holy—”

 

Floating on the magic, Harry felt Ron’s body jerk.

 

“Mate,” Ron whispered, “that’s…I never…holy shit!”

 

“Yeah, I know,” said Harry, blissfully.

 

“Shit.” Ron’s body jerked again and his hand on Harry’s convulsed.  

 

There was a crackling sound.  A blast of heat shot through Harry’s hand and a shower of sparks burst from the wand’s tip.  Suddenly, there were colors hanging in the air.  Trembling golds, greens, reds, purples, blues that revolved, rolling into shining wheels that spun slowly around the bathroom while the shimmering letters he and Ron had written dissolved and fell in a rain of silver.  

 

“Harry,” Ron said hoarsely.  He dropped the wand and Harry’s hand, groping blindly for Harry.  

 

“It’s amazing,” breathed Harry.  He felt Ron crumpling, catching fistfuls of his shirt as he fell against him. “It’s all right, mate,” he said reaching for Ron and feeling his hands slide on his mate’s sweaty back.  “It really is.”  He gathered Ron to his chest and rested his chin on the bright head.  He felt like he had in the kitchen after the healing song, like he was floating while the magic unfurled and broke over him.  It washed through him, curling in his heart and in his belly, lapping down to his groin and over his thighs.  He felt as safe and tranquil as he had in the kitchen, even as he felt Ron shaking and hiccupping in his arms.

 

“Harry” said Ron, his voice ragged, muffled by Harry’s chest.

 

“Hush,” said Harry.  Like he had after the healing song, Harry knew instinctively what was wrong with his mate.  “It’s all right,” he said again.  He let the wand roll from his fingers, as streaky ribbons of gold and purple started to fall out of the air and blue sparks settled on Ron’s hair.  “You’re just overwhelmed.”  He rubbed the smooth skin of Ron’s back, cupped the sharp wing of a shoulder blade.  “Honestly…you couldn’t have known…you couldn’t have expected.  But you’re all right.  I can feel you.  You’re brilliant, like something bright and strong.  Here—”  He stroked his knuckles up and down Ron’s sternum.  “You’re holding back here.  You’ll let go when you’re ready.  Now hush.  It really is all right.”

 

* * *

 

Later they were slumped against the wall, leaning on each other.  Ron had finally stopped shaking and Harry was so sated he felt like he should be smoking a cigarette.

 

“Horny Radar,” said Ron, tiredly.  He rubbed his eyes.  “So what does it feel like?"

 

Harry bonelessly slipped a notch further down the wall.  He thought for a moment.  “Like nothing else,” he finally had to say.  “Or like something that feels really good when it happens, then you continue to feel it for a long time afterwards.”

 

“Oh.”  Ron cut his eyes at Harry.  “Like when you take a shit,” he said.

 

“Exactly,” said Harry beaming.  He laughed because it was so like Ron to be crude at a moment like this and just because he felt giddy enough to laugh at anything.  The connection was buzzing and snapping in him, strong and vital.

 

Ron was still looking at him out of the corner of his eye and he was chewing his lip again.  

 

“Stop that,” said Harry.  “You’ve been doing that all night.”  He put his thumb on Ron’s lower lip and pressed.  It popped free of his teeth, making a little wet sound.

 

Harry let his finger linger on Ron’s lip; he pressed lightly again against the tender flesh before letting his hand fall.  He felt Ron watching him.  His own eyes dropped from his mate’s mouth to the curve of his neck, over his bare chest and out the long bones in his wide shoulders.  By the time, he raised his eyes to Ron’s and found Ron was staring back with his face flushed, Harry had decided he was done with waiting.  He was done with wondering if Ron had figured out that there was something more than friendship between them.  He was done and moving on.  He rose to his knees and climbed into Ron’s lap.  He straddled Ron’s thighs, nearly laughing at the stunned looked on Ron’s upturned face, at his lips parting in surprise.  But he didn’t laugh.  He leaned in and kissed his mate.

 

Ron drew in a startled breath and his head bumped the wall. Harry pressed in, clasping his hands behind Ron’s neck and parting his mate’s lips further.  He kissed Ron with a languorous slowness, sliding his lips over Ron’s lovely, pliant mouth and sighing with pleasure.  Ron’s lips were so full; they were hot and surrendering and he tasted, smelled wonderfully of himself.  Harry kissed him harder, feeling a spark of urgency ignite in his belly.  He slid his tongue into Ron’s mouth and felt Ron’s tongue hesitantly meet it, glide across it.  Harry groaned, tightening his thighs around Ron’s as he pressed his tongue against Ron’s.  His nipples hardened and a jolt of raw desire shot down into his groin.  He broke the kiss and pulled back to look at Ron.  The open, vulnerable look on Ron’s face made his heart seize and his stomach bunch in a funny knot that was somehow the best feeling of his life.  He felt a growl rising in his throat as he pulled Ron in, raining urgent kisses all over his face.  

 

He heard Ron sigh as he tipped his chin to allow Harry to kiss his throat.  His arms wound around Harry as he whispered, “I thought that was a dream too.”

 

Instead of answering, Harry kissed him again, hungrily.  He rocked his hips, pushing his groin against Ron’s and pressing his chest hard to Ron’s.  He meant to be gentle since they’d both been roughed up so badly, but he couldn’t contain the fierce possessiveness overwhelming him, making him grab Ron’s jaw and thrust his tongue into Ron’s mouth.

 

Ron groaned into Harry’s mouth.  His tongue pushed back against Harry’s and he raised his arms over his head, arching against Harry and offering Harry everything, his mouth, his throat, his shoulders, chest and stomach—all that hot naked skin to kiss, caress, to cup, pinch and tease.

 

They were both panting when they broke the kiss.  Ron’s eyes were dazed, his mouth swollen and wet.  Harry stroked his mate’s eye-lids, his forehead, his cheeks and lips, making all sorts of internal vows.

 

Then Ron said in a shaky voice, “Does this mean you fancy me too?”

 

Harry’s breath caught in his throat.  He seized Ron again, kissing him hard, feeling his eyes burn.  He sucked Ron’s lower lip and felt him squirm beneath him.  He pulled back slowly, taking forever to break the kiss.  “Arse,” he said, cupping Ron’s face in his hands.  “I love you.”

 

Ron took in a shuddering breath.  He flung his arms around Harry, burying his face in Harry’s neck and holding on fiercely.  Harry sat back on Ron’s lap, pulling Ron forward.  He stroked Ron’s hair gently while his insides twisted themselves up in exquisite knots.  Ron’s arms were tight and strong around him and he had the exhilarating feeling that his mate would not, could not, ever let go.

 

 

***

 

Harry dimly heard the bathroom door creak open.  

 

“First they were laughing like hyenas,” said a voice.  “Now they’re sleeping on the bathroom mat like a couple of pups.”

 

Harry opened his eyes and straightened his glasses.  Bill and Hermione had come into the bathroom.  They were peering down at him, Bill with a goofy half-smile on his face.  “Oh,” Harry said, blinking and shifting awkwardly.  His back was stiff and his arse numb.  Ron was dead asleep; his head was on Harry’s ribs and he had Harry squashed into the corner between the wall and the bathtub.  One of his arms lay in Harry’s lap and their legs were tangled together.  

 

“Wanna try the bed, kiddo?” asked Bill, toeing Harry’s shin.

 

Harry nodded.

 

Ron was so sleepy, he hardly seemed to wake when Bill lifted him to his feet and steered him into the bedroom.  Harry, followed, yawning and feeling like he could sleep another hundred years.  

 

Light was coming into the bedroom, the soft light of early morning.  Harry could hear the Burrow stirring.  Voices came from somewhere and footsteps tread the long twisty stairs.  Touching the window with her wand, Hermione said, “ _Avertus lumos_.”  The light slowly faded from the window until the bedroom was filled with shadows.

 

“Go to bed, Harry,” Hermione said.  “And by that, I mean _go to sleep_.  Sleep as long as you can.  You need the rest as much as Ron does.  We’ll wake you when Dumbledore gets here.”

 

Harry nodded stupidly.  He couldn’t have agreed with her more.  

 

Bill nudged Ron toward the bed.  Ron collapsed on it and immediately rolled to the wall.  Harry sat down on the edge of the bed.  He yawned again and was about to curl up next to Ron when he realized Bill and Hermione were watching him.  “Oh,” he said, “sorry.  You should go to bed too.  You’ve been up all night.”

 

Bill shook his head.  “No, you need to sleep too,” he said.  I’ll stay,” He stifled a yawn.  “There were dark circles under his eyes.

 

“You don’t need to stay,” said Harry.  He turned and put his wand and glasses on the bedside table.  “Ron and I did magic again together.  The connection is back, I can feel it.  If he wakes up, I’ll wake up too.”

 

“Are you sure?” asked Bill, frowning.

 

“Yah,” said Harry, sinking back into the bed.  Ron flipped over and threw his arm over Harry’s chest.   Harry’s eyes felt like lead.  He wanted to be alone with Ron but he wasn’t sure he could stay awake much longer to argue about it.  “That’s how we did it when you were gone,” he told Bill.  “I always woke up before he could climb.”

 

Hermione spoke up.  “I’m sure it’s all right, too, Bill,” she said.  “I’ve been watching.  Harry’s good with Ron.  It’s me he got away from.”

 

Bill put his hand on Hermione’s shoulder but he was looking over her head at Harry.  Harry couldn’t see the expression on Bill’s voice but he could hear the concern in his voice.  “Harry,” he said.  “There’s something else we have to talk about.”

 

Harry didn’t want to hear it.  “Not now,” he said, flapping one hand dismissively.  “Later.  Too sleepy.”  He closed his eyes and turned toward Ron.

 

* * *

 

Later the room was still dark.  Harry knew the sun must be shining brightly behind the charmed window pane but he couldn’t care less.  He was making love, love for the first time.  His mouth was fastened to Ron’s and Ron was thrusting against him, his hot urgent groans filling Harry’s mouth.  Harry moaned deeply back, unable to check himself.  It didn’t matter—silencing and locking spells had long been cast and he could give himself up to the nearly unbearable sweetness of Ron’s slick, naked body gliding over his.  Ron thrust; his cock slid against Harry’s.  His arms were locked behind Harry’s back, forcing Harry up into an arch that made the friction all that more tortuous and exquisite.  Then Ron extracted one arm and pinched Harry’s nipple. Harry felt him stiffen, the hot ejaculate between their bellies.  With a hard shudder, Harry came too.

 

Harry couldn’t guess how long they’d been at it.  He had slept deeply and come to consciousness slowly with something pulling and itching inside his head.  He’d blinked awake to see Ron staring at him, pupils dilated, eyes hungry.  Harry had scrabbled at the bedside table just as Ron had rolled over on him.  He’d managed to throw a few spells at the door before Ron had covered him completely, seizing Harry’s head and pushing his tongue into Harry’s eager mouth.  All of Ron’s hesitancy had disappeared; his kisses had been wet, fevered, his groin had pressed insistently against Harry’s.  Ron had already been shirtless and they squirmed out of the rest of their clothes without breaking the kiss.  Harry had been breathless, desperate.  He hadn’t been able to kiss Ron hard enough, to get enough of Ron’s tongue in his mouth.  He’d clasped his arms around Ron’s back, trying to pull him even closer.  And Ron had been all over him, thrusting, writhing, slippery with sweat and moaning like a wounded animal.  Harry had put his feet flat on the bed and pushed up into Ron, trying to tear his own skin off.

 

Now, they were moving slowly, frenzy replaced by languor.  Their mouths were still locked together and Harry felt like they were floating at the bottom of a warm ocean, breathing the same air.  He came again against Ron’s slippery belly and felt Ron shuddering too.  _I love you_.  He sent the words silently out and heard them come silently back.

 

* * *

 

A knock at the door roused them out of sleep or stupor.  

 

“Ron?  Harry?”  It was Bill.  “Wanna get up and eat something?  Dumbledore’s going to be here in an hour.

 

Ron groaned.  There was a ripping sound as he peeled himself off Harry and Harry reckoned they’d both lost more than a few hairs. 

 

“Ow.”  Ron fell back on the bed, pushing the hair off his face.  “Sticky.”

 

Harry rolled to his side, unwilling to lose the contact.  “Dumbledore,” he murmured, touching Ron’s face lightly.  You all right?”

 

“Brilliant,” sighed Ron.  “But I think I’m going to puke.”


	27. Chapter 27

  
Author's notes:

Many thanks to Brumeux, my beta.

 I didn't really mean for this to be chapter 27.  I meant for Dumbledore to come but other things got in the way.    
  
This chapter contains a belated birthday gift for [](http://lena3.livejournal.com/profile)[**lena3**](http://lena3.livejournal.com/); her big day was July 29th.  CoS is her favorite; she loves the blue Ford Anglia.  Could I do a little something with the car? she asked.  Could I do something with the car!  Honey, in fandom I own that car!  It's a different ship but the car is mine.  But I'm happy to share it with Lena on her birthday.     
  
Other interesting news:  After the last chap, [](http://shocolate.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://shocolate.livejournal.com/)**shocolate**  agreed that I had learned my lesson and returned my Ron.  Tom Felton was relieved of his duties as understudy.  He was glad to be rid of the red wig (it itched); we did have a spot of trouble, however, when Mr. Felton tried to make off with the 14-inch wand.   


* * *

“How is he?”

 

“Fine.”

 

“You could leave him alone?  Even with Dumbledore coming?”  Hermione’s eyebrows had disappeared under her curly fringe.

 

“Sure.  I told you, we did magic.  He’s fine.  He’s in the shower.”  Harry cocked his head as if listening.  “And he’s singing.”  He grinned at Hermione.

 

“ _Singing?_   You’re having me on.”

 

“Actually, no.  I think he’s singing.”  It wasn’t that Harry could _hear_ Ron singing.  There was just something about the small tickle in the back of his skull…it _felt_ like Ron was singing.  His grin grew wider and he wondered if he looked as giddy as he felt.

 

“Our Ron?”  Hermione was still incredulous.  “Singing?”

 

_My Ron,_ Harry silently corrected her.  He shrugged.  “Just feels that way.”  He took a huge bite of sandwich.  He and Hermione were standing in the lounge area of the big downstairs room.  He was ravenous and had swiped a sandwich from the huge pile Mrs. Weasley was making in the kitchen with Ginny and Dean’s help.

 

“Harry.” Hermione’s eyes narrowed.  “What _did_ you do to Ron in the bathroom?  Why is he suddenly a different person?”

 

Harry nearly choked on his sandwich.  “I told you, we bonded,” he said, feeling his face flush.

 

Hermione’s hands were on her hips.  “The last time you bonded, he wept buckets.”  She glared at Harry with her _you’re-keeping-something-from-me_ look.

 

“Well, he likes it now, right?”  Harry shoved the rest of the sandwich in his mouth to kill the conversation.  What was he supposed to say?  _Well, all right, then, Hermione.  Maybe he’s a bit chipper because we shagged ourselves rotten._   He felt like it was written all over his face anyway.

 

They had struggled out of bed.  Sticky, and smothering laughter, smelling to high heaven of sweat and semen.  Ron had claimed Harry smelled like “Seamus’s manky, wanky bed-sheets” before doing an abrupt about-face.  “Actually you smell good,” he’d said.  Really good.  C’mere.”  They’d playfully tussled, spinning around the room, starkers, until Harry’s back had met the wall.  Ron had pressed against him then, his naked body hot and his hands going absolutely everywhere.  Harry’s laughter had died.  He’d seized Ron’s head, pressing in with urgent kisses.  He’d backed Ron up, feeling fierce and suddenly understanding just what people meant by _I want to eat you alive_.  Ron had pressed back, every bit as fierce as Harry.  He’d wrapped his arms around Harry’s waist and lifted him clean off his feet as he’d buried his face in Harry’s shoulder.  “God you smell good,” he’d moaned, rubbing his face against Harry’s skin.  “You taste amazing…you’re so fucking amazing…can’t get enough.”  Every nerve in Harry’s body had crackled and he’d held Ron’s head fiercely to his chest, groaning helplessly while Ron had sucked at the tender skin above his nipple.

 

Another knock on the door had brought them to their senses again.  “Damn,” Ron had panted, putting Harry back on his feet, but not quite letting him go.  “Where’s a fucking Time-Turner when you need it?  I wanna stay here all day and lie on top of you.  Or under.” He had laughed, grabbing Harry’s arse cheeks and grinding their groins together.  “How ‘bout it Harry?  Wanna get on top of me?” he had asked playfully.  “Lick me all over?  Make me squirm?  Wanna tie me up?  Make me scream?”

 

Harry had flung his arms around Ron again, fastening his mouth to his mate’s.  _We are never going to get out of this room,_ he had thought.

 

“Harry.”  Hermione poked him in the ribs.  She had a suspicious look on her face.  “You have an extremely goofy smile on your face, you know.”  

 

Harry blushed.  He decided to change the topic.  “Where’s Bill?” he asked.  “Sleeping?  Were you two up all night?”

 

“Hmph.”  Hermione looked disgruntled.  “He Flooed off to pick up some Order Members.  Apparently, not all Members can get through the protective barriers.  Mundungus Fletcher, for instance?  Molly wasn’t about to give him the go-head to pop round any time.”  

 

There were thundering footsteps on the stairs.  Harry looked up just in time to see Ron jump the last few steps and land with almighty _wham_ in the kitchen.  His feet were bare and his hair was still wet from the shower.

 

“Ronald!”  Mrs. Weasley’s head jerked up.  She brandished a knife at her youngest son.  “You’ll bring the house down around our ears!”

 

“Yes, Mummy,” Ron said sweetly as he passed the table and snatched up a sandwich.  “Speaking of ears,” he added, glancing at the wireless on the window sill above the sink.  “Enough with the Celestina Warbeck, right?  She makes me wanna poke sticks in mine.”  He grabbed his mother’s wand from the counter and pointed it at the wireless.  He bit his sandwich clean in half while he flicked through the channels.

 

Mrs. Weasley paused, knife raised over a ham hock and watched Ron with sharp eyes.  Harry knew what she was thinking.  Last night, her son had been stretched out on the table half-drowned.  All summer he’d been horrid, surly, distant, furious and practically on a hunger strike.  Now here he was stuffing his face while he twirled his mother’s wand in his fingers, changing the music again and again.  Mrs. Weasley held her knife like a weapon, eyes narrowed.  _She’s probably wishing she’d fed him to a Siren ages ago,_ Harry thought. 

 

“Oy, dance music!” yelled Ron.  “Hey Gin!  Old codger dance music!  Our favorite!”

 

“Too brilliant,” said Ginny.  She bobbed her head and swung her shoulders in time to what Harry thought must be a Fox Trot.

 

Ron turned the music up louder and did a shimmy with his hips that made Harry’s mouth fall open.  Then, he spun and tossed the wand to his mother.  

 

Mrs. Weasley jumped.  Her knife and wand clattered to the floor as her hand flew to the silver locket around her neck.  

 

By the couch, Hermione pinched Harry’s elbow hard.  “ _What did you do to Ron?”_ she hissed.

 

Harry couldn’t answer.  Ron was bounding toward them now, grinning, and Harry was suddenly hot all over.  His face was burning and his groin flooding with heat.

 

Back in the bedroom, Harry had grabbed his things for a shower and made for the door, only to have Ron call him back.  “Hey, mate,” Ron had said.  Harry had turned to see him sitting on the edge of the bed, still naked and suddenly self-conscious.  “Don’t wear that,” he said, gesturing at the clothes in Harry’s hand.  “Wear my things, okay?  I liked it last night when you were wearing my shirt.  I don’t know why”—he shifted awkwardly, staring at his hands—“I just liked it.  I know I have crap clothes…pitiful hand-me-downs.  But honestly, mate, yours are even worse.  At least mine never came from Dudley Dursley.”  He’d glanced up, smiling shyly.  “Will you?”

 

Harry had nodded, wondering if his face were as pink as Ron’s.  His insides had been oddly squishy.  _Wear my things._   It was so, so _intimate._

 

“Dance music,” Ron yelled.  He put one hand on the back of the couch and vaulted it.  He skidded on the rug, sliding to a stop in front of Harry and Hermione. 

 

“Ronald Weasley!” exclaimed Hermione, taking a step back.  She looked both wary and amused.  “Whatever has gotten into you?”  

 

“What?” said Ron, advancing on her and grinning mischievously.   “You like Death Eater Ron better?  RAWR!”  He lunged at her, snatching her into his arms and making her shriek.  “Come on, Hermione,” he said, grabbing her hand and extending their arms hard enough to jerk Hermione’s out of her socket.  “It’s dance music!  Give us a dance!”  He whirled her round before she could protest.

 

“Oh!  Ron!” Hermione cried.  She stumbled as she tried to keep up with her flying feet.  

 

“Good God.”  Ron stopped abruptly and dumped Hermione unceremoniously on the couch.  “You’re hopeless,” he said.  “How about you, Harry?”  

 

“ _What?”_

 

But Harry had already been jerked into Ron’s arm and was being swung around the room by his laughing mate.  He tripped over a bunch in the rug, nearly bringing them both down.

 

“Pathetic,” Ron announced.  He dumped Harry on to the couch next to Hermione who giggling madly.  “Where’s Ginny?” Ron demanded, extending one hand to the kitchen area.  “Come on, Gins, have a spin with me?”

 

Ginny had a huge smile on her face.  She bobbed, dropping a curtsey before bounding across the room and leaping into her brother’s arms.  

 

“More like it,” said Ron, putting her on her feet.  He cocked his head as he put one hand on her waist.  “’Kay, what is this?”  

 

Dean helpfully tipped his wand at the wireless, turning the music up even louder.

 

“A waltz, idiot,” said Ginny.  She took Ron’s other hand.  “I can lead,” she said tossing her head, “if you’ve forgotten how.”

 

“I have not,” said Ron indignantly.  “Ready?”

 

“Ready,” said Ginny.

 

Harry felt his jaw drop.  Beside him, Hermione stared bugged-eye.  Ron and Ginny were spinning about the lounge, looking almost as graceful and practiced as dancers Harry had once seen on Dudley’s telly.  They whirled round and round, sweeping across the floor, as Ginny’s hair swung out in a shiny fan.  As they swept close to a squashy chair, Ron raised one foot and kicked it out of the way without missing a step.  Ginny laughed as he lifted her lightly over the bunch in the rug.  

 

Harry was absolutely gobsmacked.  “You can dance?” he said stupidly.

 

“Obviously,” said Hermione dryly.  “I’d say they’ve had a bit of practice.”

 

“It’s what you do when you’re poor,” said Ron as he spun Ginny in the opposite direction.  

 

Harry gaped, remembering his painful dance with Parvati.  He was amazed that Ron, who sometimes seemed dangerously uncoordinated on his broomstick, could dance and talk at the same time.  He remembered having his own tongue clamped between his teeth as he counted steps and stared at his feet while Parvati steered him.  

 

“When you’re poor you don’t go out,” Ron went on, cheerfully, fluidly dropping Ginny into a deep dip.  “You stay at home, listen to the wireless and dance with your bossy little sister.”

 

Harry was amazed again.  Was Ron really talking about being poor without the slightest hint of bitterness in his voice?  Hermione must have been thinking the same thing; she shot Harry a surprised glance. 

 

Ginny broke away from Ron.  She arched her back and did something with one leg that put her foot as high as her head.  Her arms were gracefully raised.   “I taught Ron everything he knows,” she said, turning smoothly on one foot.  “I was going to be a ballerina when I was little, then I was going to be an ice skater.  Then I discovered Quidditch and never looked back.”  She snapped out of her pose and spun back into Ron’s arms, catching him off-guard.  They toppled together onto the couch, Ron falling across Harry’s and Hermione’s laps and Ginny coming down on top of him.  

 

“Pity Quidditch,” said Ron.  He grunted as Ginny bounced hard on his stomach.  “Get off, Gins, you outweigh me by a stone.”  He rolled her off the couch and she caught a fistful of his hair, dragging him after her.  “So that’s how it’s going to be, huh?” Ron growled.  They wrestled playfully for a moment before Ron managed to roll Ginny to her back.

 

“Ha!” he cried triumphantly, straddling her stomach.  “Don’t mess with your big brother, Gin—Ow! OW!  Dammit, Ginny.  I give, I give!”

 

Ginny sat up laughing as Ron fell to one side.  She bounced to her feet and blew kisses at Harry and Hermione before sashaying back to the kitchen.  

 

“Ow.”  Ron was lying on his back on the floor.  “I think she broke it this time.”

 

“What did she do to you?” Hermione asked.  Her eyes were alight with interest.

 

“Not telling you,” grumbled Ron.  He inspected his left hand.  “She knows this trick…a thing with my finger.  Feels like she’s going to snap it in two.”  He wiggled his fingers and sat up sighing.  “Thrashed by a girl.  Can’t say that doesn’t hurt.”

 

Hermione laughed but Harry was still in shock.  “You can dance,” he said, staring at Ron as though the redhead had suddenly asked for spider pie.  “How come you never told me?  Do all Weasleys dance?”  He was imaging a redheaded conga line snaking its way around the Burrow.

 

“Of course,” said Ron, he leaned back against the couch, his shoulder brushing Harry’s leg.  “We’ve always danced—not that there wasn’t a fair amount of jumping on the furniture involved.  But Ginny was dead serious about being a ballerina.  She took a few lessons over in the village but Dad couldn’t really afford it.  So he bought her an old instruction manual.  The only one he could find was for ballroom dance and it had the ponciest voice in the world.  ‘One and two and reverse quarter turn, one and sashay, sashay’”—

 

“That does sound poncey,” said Hermione.

 

Ron snorted.  “I’m surprised that book didn’t cha-cha-cha up the stairs to molest us boys at night,” he said.  “Mum always made me and the twins practice with Gin,” he went on.  She threatened to take our brooms if we didn’t.  Of course, Fred and George were always skiving off…though they do do a mean tango.  Glide around like a couple of toffs—”    

 

“Why on earth, then,” interrupted Hermione, “wouldn’t you dance with Padma at the ball?  She would have been thrilled.”

 

“Hardly,” said Ron.  “She would have had to dance with one hand holding her nose.  No way I was getting close enough for her to smell the mothballs on my dress robes.”  His arm brushed Harry’s leg; his hand landed softly on Harry’s trainer.  

 

Harry shifted uncomfortably.  _Will he be touching me in front of his family now?_ hewondered.  The idea gave him a funny feeling in his stomach.  Ron’s hand slid up Harry’s foot.  Harry was wearing a pair of jeans Ron had given him.  Ron said they were too short, but he’d had still had to turn up the cuffs.  He felt Ron’s fingers snake under the cuff and around his ankle.

 

“Oh, honestly, Ronald,” said Hermione.  She sounded disgusted.  “A simple spell could have taken care of that.  I would have done it for you, you know.”  

 

“Wasn’t having you near my dress robes either,” said Ron.  He squeezed Harry’s ankle.  “They smelled like my Aunt Tessie.  Oy!”  Suddenly he jumped to his feet.  “Just thought of something Harry,” he said. “Got something cool to show you!  Come on.”  

 

* * *

 

Harry was practically running, trying to keep up with Ron’s loping stride.  Ron was humming as he shoved another sandwich in his mouth.  They were crossing the garden and heading toward the old barn.

 

“What are you going to show me?” Harry asked.  

 

“You wouldn’t believe what turned up.  It’s in the barn,” said Ron around his mouthful of sandwich.  “Or the garage, as Dad prefers to call the barn.”  He crammed the rest of the sandwich in his mouth and opened the door to barn.  It was dark inside.  It took Harry a moment to see the object taking up most of the room.  It was large and humped and it seemed to be covered with a tarp.  

 

“What is it?” he asked.

 

“An old friend,” said Ron.  He took hold of the tarp and gave a hard jerk.  The tarp flew up in the air and there in the swirl of dust motes lit by shafts of sun coming in from a high window sat a large and battered turquoise car.

 

“Your Dad’s old Ford!” exclaimed Harry amazed.  “What in the world is it doing here?”

 

Ron shrugged.  “Dunno,” he said.  He patted the car’s bonnet fondly.  “We were having dinner one night and suddenly there were lights coming out of the sky.  I thought a Muggle airplane was getting ready to land on the house.  We all ran outside just in time to see the car land in the garden and make for the barn.  It was in horrid shape, all stove in and banged up.  Branches sticking out the window, tires flat.  Dad’s cleaned up it a bit, hammered out some of the dents.  But Mum made him de-magick it.  Too bad,” he sighed.  “Wouldn’t it be fun if we could take it up?”

 

“Yeah,” said Harry, staring at the car.  He walked forward and put both hands on the battered blue bonnet.  A warm feeling sparked in his belly, spread through the rest of his body.  He ran his fingers over the peeling blue paint.

 

“It was nice to see the old thing again,” said Ron.  “I’m willing to forgive it for the Whomping Willow since it saved our arses from Aragog’s nasty family.”

 

“Yeah,” said Harry again.  Neither the Whomping Willow nor the spider rescue was what he remembered most about Mr. Weasley’s car.  He remembered the giddiness of flying, but more than that, much more, he remembered the moment he had first seen it, hanging the in air outside his bedroom window.  “You were leaning out of the back window,” he said to Ron.  

 

“What?” said Ron.  He was standing back with his arms folded, watching curiously as Harry inspected the car.  

 

“When you came in the car to get me at the Dursleys’,” said Harry, turning to look at Ron.  “You were leaning out the back window.”  He leaned back against the car’s bonnet, unable to take his eyes off Ron.  

 

“I was?” said Ron, his lips quirking into a smile.

 

“Yeah,” said Harry.  The memory suddenly made his heart feel as though it had been bruised.  “You held out your hand to me and said you’d come to take me home.”

 

“I said that?” said Ron, grinning now.  “That I’d come to take you—”

 

_“Home_ ,” said Harry.  He held out one hand to Ron and Ron grasped it.  They moved easily into an embrace.  Harry tipped his face up, Ron tipped his down and their lips met softly.  Ron’s arms came around Harry’s back while Harry wrapped his around Ron’s shoulders.  Their kiss was unhurried; it was slow and deep and melting.  Harry leaned one hip against the car’s bonnet and Ron’s hair away from his neck to cup the nape.  Heat coiled in his groin as Ron’s tongue slid into his mouth.

 

Ron broke the kiss.  He sat on the car’s bonnet, one foot on the fender, and pulled Harry to him.  Harry let himself be turned so his back rested against Ron’s chest.  “Well, it _is_ home, isn’t it, Harry?” Ron asked, putting his chin on Harry’s shoulder. His warm hands slid up Harry’s shirt and over his belly.

 

“Yeah,” said Harry, turned to kiss Ron’s cheek.  “I’d say so.”

 

Harry pointed his wand at the door.  The barn dimmed as the door swung shut and Harry found himself in a cone of light falling from the high window.  His eyes followed the dust motes, gold and glittering as they revolved upward and Ron’s hands slid up too, firming Harry’s sensitive nipples into buds.  Harry leaned between Ron’s legs and let Ron kiss along his neck.  He shivered as Ron’s tongue flicked at his throat.  A picture of a red-haired boy in a blue car turned in his mind, a twelve-year-old boy with his arm stretched out, his hand open.  _We’ve come to take you home._

 

Ron pulled Harry closer, his hands gliding up and closing over Harry’s collarbones.  His tongue found a sensitive spot near Harry’s ear.  Harry groaned and pressed his arse into Ron’s groin.  _It is home,_ he thought.

 

“Like you in my shirt.” Ron’s mouth was hot, his voice breathy in Harry’s ear.  “Makes me all shivery…like I’m touching you even when I’m not.”

 

“Smells like you,” sighed Harry, trusting Ron to understand that was a good thing.  He rolled his head on Ron’s shoulder, ground his arse harder into Ron’s crotch.

 

Ron’s hands worked their way down Harry’s jeans.  He gently unfolded Harry’s stiffening cock.  “You’re not shagged out, are you?” he whispered.  His lips tickled Harry’s ear.  “Tender?  We were grinding a bit hard upstairs.”

 

“Hardly,” murmured Harry.  He put his arms over his head and clasped Ron’s neck, arching his back as Ron’s fingers played lightly over the hot and insensitive skin of his cock.

 

“Borrow your wand?” asked Ron.  He pulled his hands out of Harry’s jeans and slipped the wand out of Harry’s back pocket.  “Watch this.”  He pulled the front of Harry’s jeans away from his belly and slipped the wand under his pants.  “I solemnly swear,” he said, impishly, “my bits are bigger than Fred’s.”  

 

Harry felt warm lubricant coating his cock.  He laughed.  “Let me guess, George invented that one.”

 

“He enchanted a jar of lubricant to respond to the charm,” said Ron.  “Bastard only showed it to me to wind Fred up.  Now up you go.”  He slipped his hands under Harry’s armpits and pulled him up onto the car.  Kissing Harry, he slid them both back until they were able to stretch out across the bonnet with their legs dangling.  They lay side by side, stroking each other gently and kissing with hot open mouths.  

 

Awhile later, Harry found himself on his back, his shirt rucked up above his nipples.  His trousers were open and worked down so his prick was free.  Ron was leaning over him, his red hair falling over them both as he alternated between kissing Harry and sucking at his nipples.  He had one arm under Harry’s neck while the other hand made a hot loose fist around Harry’s cock.  Harry felt like he’d passed over into some other world where time had stopped just to let Ron do wonderful things to his body.  Every time he’d reached up to touch Ron, Ron had gently taken his wrist and laid his hand back down on the car’s bonnet.  “Let me, please, Harry,” he’d murmured, barely breaking the kiss. His lips had moved on Harry’s as he’d whispered, “you’re so…just so…god, you’re just killing me.”

 

Harry had wondered who was killing who.  He’d closed his eyes, giving himself up to Ron’s touch.  He felt himself rising and falling, his back arching and his hips tilting under his mate’s light touch.  And he had all the time in the world to do this, feel the hot wet mouth on him, the hand so teasingly gentle around his cock.  He had all the time into the world to let it build, let the clever fingers stroke him to a slow, shattering orgasm that made him ripple and shudder, gasping, on the bonnet of the car.

 

Ron’s head fell to Harry’s chest as though he were the one who had just come.  He was murmuring into Harry’s chest, soft words Harry couldn’t catch.  Harry sank his fingers deep into Ron’s hair.

 

Finally he sat up and rolled Ron to his back on the car’s bonnet.  He raised himself on one elbow and stroked Ron’s hair until it fanned around his face.  Ron opened his eyes and squinted against the sun coming in through the barn’s high window.  The effect was startling, his hair glinted red and gold against the car’s turquoise paint and in the sun his eyes matched the car’s bright hue.  Harry leaned down and gave Ron a slow, deep kiss.

 

“Harry.” Ron’s voice was ragged.  He put one hand against Harry’s chest, pushing lightly.  “Don’t do this…unless you mean it.  Don’t…just don’t…I couldn’t stand it.”  Harry lifted his eyes.  Ron’s looked feverish.

 

“Hush,” he said, putting fingers against Ron’s lips.  “Trust me.”  He couldn’t resist letting one finger slip into Ron’s mouth.  “I told you I love you, right?  Now be still because I want to do to you that fucking brilliant thing you just did to me.”

 

He kissed Ron to silence any further talk and never broke the kiss as he rolled on top of his mate, pressing him down on the hard bonnet of the car.

 

* * *

 

A while later, they lay on their backs on the car’s bonnet, staring up at the barn’s rafters.  Harry had his hands behind his head; his ribs and hips pressed against Ron’s.  Ron had one knee up and the other foot propped on it.  He twirled his bare foot idly as he hummed quietly to himself.

 

Harry closed his eyes and turned his focus inward.  The smallish tickle, niggle, tingle, whatever…the thing in the back of his skull that he thought of as _Ron_ —his connection to Ron—had a deep indigo color.  At least Harry had the impression that it was indigo—and that it was moving, thick and slow, like honey sliding over the lip of a wide mouth jar.  Harry still didn’t understand much about their connection but he thought perhaps he could see it more clearly since Arthur and Molly had enhanced it so he could find Ron.  Except _see_ wasn’t exactly the right word.  _Sense_ was better.  He could somehow sense the connection and understand his impression of a rich color and a thick liquid meant that Ron was relaxed and content.

 

“Hey, mate.”

 

Harry thought the connection stirred slightly, as if a light finger had trailed across its thick surface.

 

“Hmm?”

 

“You know,” said Ron.  “This is the best I’ve felt all summer.”

 

“Best I’ve felt all summer too,” said Harry, grinning to himself.

 

Ron snorted.  “That’s not what I meant, perv,” he said.  “Though I’m pretty happy about that, too.”  He nudged Harry’s hip with his.  “I’m just not having, you know, any interference from Gerard right now.”

 

“I know,” said Harry.  He sat up and looked at his mate.  Ron had one arm crooked behind his head, the other was resting on his belly. _Ordinarily_ , Harry thought, _he’d be_ _picking at something or running his hand through his hair._   “You haven’t given me any headaches today,” Harry said thoughtfully.  “You haven’t mentioned running, either.”

 

“Don’t really feel like running,” said Ron.  He turned his head and looked at Harry with sleepy eyes.  “First time this summer.  Why do you suppose that is?”

 

“Well,” Harry said.  “You said Gerard doesn’t like running—”

 

“Nope,” agreed Ron.  “He’s a lazy bastard.”  

 

“You say he doesn’t like pain,” went on Harry, thinking of the healing but still livid slices on Ron’s arms.  “Maybe he doesn’t like sex, either.”

 

Ron laughed.  But there was an edge to his laugh and Harry sensed the connection changing colors.  “I’m afraid the git does like sex,” Ron said.  “Going on the lovely images I’d had this summer.  Maybe he just doesn’t like sex with you, mate.”  He poked Harry in the ribs.

 

“I wish I’d known that earlier,” said Harry.  He brushed Ron’s fringe from his forehead, then traced a finger down Ron’s cheek.  “All this time…instead of stinging you, I could have been snogging you.”


	28. Chapter 28

  
Author's notes:

Many thanks to Brumeux, my beta. John betaed this but then I had to rewrite the last part because I just wasn't happy. So could be error-loaded. (Sorry.)  
  
Well, I managed to get Dumbledore to the Burrow (finally!) but still haven't made it to the extraction. Once the boys start snogging (and it did take a year in RL) it's hard to stop them.  
  
Warning: This chapter is way gooshey, squishy, squooshey, sweet, sugary, smurfy and care-beary. Whoa.  
  
Oh, and also, I got something I always wanted--comments went into page two on the last chapter!!!! (I LOVE YOU GUYS!) I have always been secretly and pettily jealous of the multiple comment page writers. So I am preening, posturing, jumping on a self-erected pedestal and patting myself on the back. (So unseemly--don't look.)   
  


Yahoo Group address for anyone who wants to join: <http://groups.yahoo.com/group/matildabishopsproxyseries/>

WARNING: SLASH. Also, this is a serial, updated frequently...just a friendly heads-up for people who prefer to read finished pieces.  


* * *

“Miss Delacour would like to give you a very rare and valuable gift, Ronald,” said Dumbledore.  

 

Fleur Delacour beamed at Ron and Dumbledore.  She was curled on the couch between Bill and Charlie, looking even more silvery and shimmery than usual.  But, for once, she was having no effect on Ron.  

 

Ron slouched on the footstool in front of Dumbledore, who, seated in a squashy chair in the lounge, looked quite at home.  Mrs. Weasley on the other hand seemed ill at ease.  She perched on the very edge of the other squashy chair, looking so taut she reminded Harry of Aunt Petunia.  He almost expected her to jump up and clean something.  Mr. Weasley, on a straight-back chair next to her, kept patting her knee.  Harry and Hermione stood behind Ron, their backs to the fireplace.  They were there to give Ron moral support.  Mrs. Weasley had started to suggest that they wait upstairs but Ron had thrown her such a disgusted look, she’d stopped in mid-sentence.  The Members of the Order of the Phoenix were at the Burrow too, presently outside demolishing the piles of sandwiches and pies Mrs. Weasley had provided.  To Harry’s surprise, Arabella Figg was among the group.

 

Ron’s ducked his head.  He ground the toe of one trainer into the rug.  His mother had made him put on shoes to meet with Dumbledore and Harry was finding it rather a shame.  _I think I like him best barefoot,_ he thought with a funny pulling in his stomach, _and maybe without a shirt, too_.  

 

Ron glanced up sharply at Harry and Harry felt his face heat.  _He doesn’t know what I’m thinking, does he?_ he wondered, remembering with a jolt his own certainty earlier that Ron had been singing in the shower.  But then Ron frowned and plucked nervously at the cuff of his long-sleeved t-shirt and Harry changed his mind.  _He’s probably just seeking some reassurance,_ he thought, sending his mate what he hoped was an encouraging nod.  

 

Ron responded with a weak smile.  He jiggled his knee.

 

Harry sighed.  Ron was definitely edgy.  He’d been edgy ever since they’d entered the house and seen the Order Members milling about.  Hermione had been the one to fetch them from the barn.  They’d been lying close together on the bonnet of the car, watching the late afternoon light filter through the barn’s high window, going rose, going red.  They’d been talking idly about the Cannons’ chances once the season started and the possibility of problems for the Tornados since their best chaser was out on maternity leave when Hermione had pushed open the barn door.  She had seemed surprised to see the Anglia though not positively delighted, as Harry had been.  _Well,_ Harry had thought _, she never did have the emotional connection to the car that Ron and I do.  Besides,_ he felt his lips curve into a smile, _she hasn’t just been jacked off on its bonnet._ He’d given her a lazy hello and Ron had grunted as they shifted to make room for her up on the bonnet.  Harry had nudged Ron left so Hermione ended up on his right.  He hadn’t wanted her in between.  He’d been unwilling to lose the press of Ron’s hip against his, or the way his heart jumped every time Ron’s arm brushed his.  

 

Hermione had filled them in.  She’d said the Order had arrived and that Dean had been Flooed out.  He’d asked Ginny to visit him at his parents’ later in the week.  Fred and George had Flooed over only to be chased back into the fireplace by Mrs. Weasley because they weren’t Order Members.  Ginny, despite her protests, had been sent along with them.  “It’s just the three of us now,” Hermione had said.  “Along with the Order Members.  Then she’d made a face.  “Guess who the newest Member of the Order is,” she’d said sourly.  “Fleur Delacour!”  She’d seemed put out that Harry and Ron hadn’t found the news particularly galling.  

 

“Makes sense, you know,” Ron had said. “She’s from a prominent pure-blood family in France.  Or so Bill says.”  When Hermione had huffed, he’d added.  “Come on, Hermione, with her contacts, she’s bound to be dead useful.  Plus, she can use her Veela tricks to sway people to our side.”  

 

“Oh right,” Hermione had scoffed.  “Not because it’s the _right_ side…but because it has the best looking girls.”  

 

“Works for me,” Ron had said.  Hermione had leaned over Harry to shoot Ron a filthy look but Ron had only smiled back, which had Harry smile too.  _Is Ron as blissed out as I am?_ he wondered.

 

In fact, Harry had been dreaming.  On the bonnet of the car next to Ron, as happy as he’d ever been, he’d been idly planning their future.  _We’ll live in the car_ , he’d decided.  _I love it that much.  We’ll have to engorge the inside, of course, at least the back seat…like a wizard’s tent.  We’ll put a four poster back there, a big cozy one with poufy pillows.  There’ll be a lounge with a fireplace too, and a kitchen and bath and we’ll magick the whole business to fly again.  Sometimes we’ll sit up front and fly wherever we want, stop when we see a likely place.  A beach or a meadow or a forest where no one has ever been before.  Other times we’ll sleep or make love in the bed while the car flies and the wind and the clouds stream in through the open windows.  I’ll hold Ron on top of me and watch his face as his body slides over mine.  He’ll lift his eyes to meet mine; I’ll lick the sweat from his jaw and the muscles in his arms and shoulders will roll._   _He’ll throw his head back for me and I’ll see the moon pass through his hair._

 

“Harry,” Hermione had elbowed him.  “They’re waiting for us.”

 

Harry had been most reluctant to leave the barn.

 

In the house, they’d found the Order just as Hermione had said.  They’d opened the back door and the heads had turned one by one and the room had fallen silent.  _They know_ , Harry had thought, feeling the snap and buzz of agitation in his head.  _Ron knows they know and he doesn’t like it._   He’d trotted after Ron as his mate had made quickly for the stairs, nodding curtly at his mother’s command to put on shoes and change his shirt.  Harry had noticed that the connection was not as nearly as clear and sharp as it had been in the barn while they’d been lying together in quiet and stillness.  Still he could feel it moving from relaxed and fluid to wary and stiff.  Hermione had been right behind them until she spotted Bill talking to Charlie near the fireplace.  She’d spun immediately, marching over to stop in front of Bill with her arms folded.  “Do you dance too?” she’d demanded.  She’d sounded as though she were accusing him of something.

 

“What?” Bill had been taken aback.

 

Ron had laughed then, a short harsh bark.  It had felt to Harry like the brittle crackle of dry leaves.  “Watch out, Billy,” Ron had called as he turned to head up the stairs.  “She’ll bloody your toes.  She learned her moves from duck-foot Krum.”

 

* * *

 

Ron chewed his thumbnail.  His knee bounced so hard the framed photographs on the mantelpiece rattled.  In one picture, Harry saw a red-haired toddler tumble over and disappear below the frame.  In a wedding photo, Mrs. Weasley grabbed Mr. Weasley’s arm in alarm.   

 

“Ronald,” prompted Mrs. Weasley.  She was plucking anxiously at her locket.

 

“Sorry,” said Ron.  He jerked his hand away from his mouth and looked at Dumbledore.  “Sorry, sir.  A gift?”

 

“Yes, Ronald.” said Dumbledore.  He wore dark blue robes with embroidered silver dragons and a matching hat.  He smiled benignly at Ron, watching him over steepled fingers while the fire’s cooling blue flames glinted off his half moon glasses.  “A most usual gift…one that has been in Miss Delacour’s family for years.”  He nodded over Ron’s head to Fleur who smiled prettily.  “I think, Ronald, you will find it most useful.”  

 

Dumbledore reached into his robes and fetched out what looked like a small jewelry box.  It was obviously very old; the wood was worn and smooth.  But it was lovely, inlaid with pearl and opal.  A faint glow seeped from under its lid.

 

Ron glanced at Harry.  Harry nodded at him and smiled.  Ron straightened his back slightly and looked at Dumbledore.  “It’s nice, isn’t it?” he said, “but, sir, what is it?”

 

Fleur answered.  “It is called zee oeil de l’esprit.” she said.  She sat so close to Bill there was a wide space between her and Charlie.  Her legs were folded beneath her and she gestured as she spoke, hands and arms making graceful turns in the air.  Her bright sheet of silver hair seemed to lift and ripple in the fire’s breeze though Harry wondered if it were a Veela trick.  No one else’s hair was moving.  “My great-grandmuzzer…it was ’ers,” said Fleur, sweeping a slender arm toward the box.  “But of course I zought of it at once when Bill told me of zee situation.”

 

Bill nodded, watching Ron closely, his face slightly clouded.  Bill’s hair had been cut.  It was no longer ragged and uneven from the splinching.  It was chin length, falling in curtains on either side of his handsome face.  _He’s got Snape’s haircut,_ thought Harry with amusement.  _Only it looks like crap on Snape, while on Bill…well, anything would look good on Bill._

 

“Zee what?”  Ron looked puzzled.

 

“Eye of the mind,” said Hermione curtly.  “Or rather a Mind’s Eye.  Could that be a Demi Pensieve, Professor?” she asked, glancing from the box to Dumbledore.  “I’ve read about those.”

 

Dumbledore smiled delightedly at Hermione from under his thick silver eyebrows.  “You are exactly right as usual, Miss Granger,” he said beaming.  “Pensieves come in all sizes and many different forms.  They do not have to be ponderous stone affairs like the one in my office,” he said, with a glance up at Harry.  “Once I saw a most remarkable Demi Pensieve, made from a walnut shell, no bigger than a thimble, but capable of holding hundreds of thoughts.  Salazar Slytherin was said to have a Pensieve made from a giant’s skull and my dear friend Nicolas Flamel has been known to use his bathtub as a Pensieve…sometimes while bathing.  There are teacup Pensieves and goldfish bowl Pensieves.  Spoon Pensieves were once very popular.  Unfortunately they were banned because too many people mistook spoon Pensieves for regular spoons and became quite ill after ingesting nasty thoughts.  And there are of course mirror Pensieves.  If I remember correctly, Arthur,” he added, turning to Mr. Weasley, “you had to untangle a bit of a mess with a mirror Pensieve once.”

 

“Ah, yes.”  Mr. Weasley who had been looking rather weary suddenly brightened as though this were a fond memory.  “Oh, that was some time ago, it was.  I was new on the job.  A mirror Pensieve turned up at a Muggle charity bizarre and one woman became convinced she was a vampire because she wasn’t casting a reflection.  The poor dear went so far as to bite someone.  A bit batty, bless her.”

 

Fleur laughed from the couch.  Harry couldn’t help but notice her laugh was as silvery and rippling as her hair.  He also couldn’t help but notice Hermione bristling like a porcupine under attack.  Mr. Weasley must have caught the brunt of Fleur’s laugh, for he suddenly turned pink in the face, sat up very straight and smoothed down his wispy hair.    

 

Mrs. Weasley turned pink too, for a different reason.  “Oh Fleur!” she burst out.  “You can’t give Ron a Pensieve!  I mean it’s lovely of you to want to help…but a Pensieve!  And an heirloom!  We couldn’t accept such a thing!”  She seemed quite flushed and flustered.

 

There was a sudden frisson in Harry’s head, as though a tight string running from one ear to other had been plucked by rough fingers.  He winced, watching Ron’s back stiffen and his ears go pink.  _Molly should know,_ Harry thought grimly, _that this is not a good time to make a scene._

 

Mr. Weasley was obviously thinking the same thing.  “Now, Molly,” he said, patting his wife’s hand consolingly.  “You’re right…it _is_ lovely of Fleur and the important thing is that Ron gets the help he needs.”

 

Again Harry’s head throbbed and there was a flash of light behind his eyes.  A small knot was forming in the back of his skull.  _That,_ he thought _, is going to be an absolutely crushing headache in about five seconds_.  He looked again at Ron, noticing his mate’s knee had stopped bouncing and that he’d gone still and rigid.  _Ron doesn’t like everyone talking around him_ , Harry thought.  _Can’t really blame him.  This could get ugly._

 

“Molly,” said Dumbledore gently.  “I suggest you take this gift with the grace it’s being offered.  It’s not only Ronald who would benefit.  He may well be in possession of things that could be of use to the Order.  Gerard Flint was very close to Voldemort at one time—”

 

BANG!

 

Between the noise and the pain that hit him, Harry thought something had exploded in his head.  Then he realized that Ron had jumped to his feet and sent the footstool crashing over.  He was shouting and so was Mrs. Weasley.

 

“RONALD!  WHAT ON EARTH!”

 

“IT’S OFF!  I’M NOT DOING IT”

 

“SIT DOWN!”

 

Through watering eyes, Harry saw Ron flushing furiously.

 

“IT’S OFF!  IT’S BAD ENOUGH—”

 

“SHUT UP, RON!” shouted Hermione.  Harry realized she had grabbed his arm and was holding him up.  “Just shut it and look at Harry!”

 

“I’m all right,” Harry started to say, but stopped as another arrow of pain shot through him.

 

Ron shut his mouth and whirled toward Harry.  “Harry?” he said, his face going white.

 

That only made things worse.  Harry screwed his eyes shut against the pain.  Sharp voices stabbed at him and he had the impression of a thick black liquid roiling, bubbling like hot mud.  _Ron doesn’t know what to feel,_ he thought with a flash of insight _.  He’s furious but he’s also worried for me.  He’s scared and angry and he’s going to overload me if he doesn’t calm down_.  He reached out blindly, grabbing Ron’s shoulder.  “Get me out of here, mate,” he said hoarsely.  

 

Then Ron was half-carrying, half-dragging him off.  

 

“Um, sorry…just give us a moment,” Harry called back shakily.  “We’ve figured out a way to handle this.”  He dearly hoped no one would follow.

 

The voices rose behind them.  Bill and Mr. Weasley were calming Mrs. Weasley down while Fleur said, “But what is ’appening?”  Then Dumbledore’s voice floated above the rest.  “Oh dear me,” he sighed.  “I seem to have said quite the wrong thing.”

 

* * *

 

_It’s better now,_ Harry thought in relief, _now that we’re behind closed doors.  At least, I don’t feel like my head is going to explode anymore_.  The pain had subsided some, though he still felt Ron’s panic, sharp and spiky, stabbing at his head.  Ron had hauled him up a flight of stairs to the nearest room with a door, which happened to be Mr. and Mrs. Weasley’s.  They had stumbled into the room, Ron turning to kick the door shut with one foot.  His face was in Harry’s now, ashen, wide-eyed with distress.

 

“Harry?”

 

“Yeah?” said Harry hazily, head throbbing.  He sank to his knees, deciding he’d be better off on the floor.  

 

Ron followed him down, grabbing him by the shoulders.  “Harry!  Mate!  Are you all right?”

 

“Sure,” said Harry, sagging against Ron.  “It’s getting better…if you’d just calm down.”

 

“Calm down?  Right.  Er…erm…you gotta hex me.”  Ron’s loud voice sent jittery slices of pain through Harry head.  “Or give me your wand and I’ll hex myself.”

 

“No,” said Harry.  He tried to keep from wincing, knowing it would only make Ron more anxious. “Not that.”  Somehow he knew hexing wouldn’t work.  “We’re going to have to try something else.”

 

“What?  _What?_  Just tell me.”

 

Dozens of thoughts flitted through Harry’s head.  He was amazed he was able to think so clearly when it felt like a tight thin wire was slicing through his brain.  But he could and one by one he rejected the options that occurred to him.  _Telling him to calm down, that just makes him panic more…take a deep breath, that’s stupid, he’s as rigid as a plank…go running, no, he won’t leave me_.  Then it hit him, a solution as simple as it was perfect.

 

“Take care of me,” he said.

 

“What?”

 

“I’m in pain, you’re worried about me…so take care of me.”

 

“ _Take care of you?_   How?”  

 

Harry closed his eyes, ignoring a hot burst of pain.  “Easy, silly,” he said.  “Put your arms around me.”

 

“Arms around you?”  Ron still seemed confused.  He put his arms gingerly around Harry.

 

“Oh, come on, Ron,” said Harry.  He wondered if the pain was making him daft because he felt like laughing.  “I won’t break.  Hold me.”

 

“Hold you,” repeated Ron, hesitating a moment before pulling Harry gently to his chest.  Harry could feel his mate’s heart banging madly.

 

“Tighter, Ron,” said Harry.  Even as a needle of pain poked at his closed right eye, he felt like laughing.  _This is like talking a jumper off a ledge_ , he thought.  “Put your back into it, mate.”

 

Ron hesitated again and Harry heard him gulp.  Then he nodded and began gathering Harry in closer and closer until their bodies were flush from neck to knees.  His long arms wound around Harry’s back and he pressed his cheek to Harry’s.  Suddenly Harry was warm and snug, and something was cracking inside him, like ice in a river thawing.  “That’s it, mate,” he said, patting Ron’s back.  “You’re doing fine.  S’better already.  Keep going…rock me.”

 

Ron took a deep breath.  He swayed clumsily, rocking them both from side to side.  Then, slowly his shoulders began to relax and his arms molded themselves to the curves of Harry’s back.  Harry put his head on Ron’s shoulder and breathed in his mate’s scent.  Blessedly, the pain was backtracking.

 

“That’s it, Ron,” he said.  “You know how to do this.  Pet me…comfort me.”

 

Ron nodded again.  He slipped one hand up Harry’s shirt and rubbed his back.  

 

Harry sighed, going limp against with relief.  

 

“S’better?” asked Ron in a whisper.

 

“Yeah,” said Harry.  “Much.”  Ron’s hand felt heavenly as it made light circles on his bare skin.  “We’re almost there, mate.”

 

“What next?”  Ron rubbed his cheek against Harry’s.

 

“Erm…hum a little,” Harry said.  “I like that.”

 

Ron gently resettled them, shifting until he was sitting, leaning against the door with Harry snug against him.  He held Harry’s head to his shoulder and, still stroking Harry’s back, started humming.  Harry didn’t recognized the song, still it seemed familiar; it was slow and low and sweet as it slipped into his head, warm and golden.  It flowed over the last of the pain, melting it, washing it away.  Harry felt like he was floating, protected, in a place where no harm could come to him.  He slid his arms around Ron’s waist, touching bare skin.  He cupped Ron’s hipbone with one hand and ran his fingers along the dips in his ribs with the other.  He heard Ron sing softly, _well I’ve never been to heaven but I’ve been to_ _Oklahoma_ _._   Harry would have laughed but he felt too good.

 

“See what you can do, Ron?” he finally said.  “Honestly, I thought my head was going to split like a melon…now it’s brilliant, just brilliant.”

 

Ron sighed.  “It’s a bit scary, actually,” he said. “Guess I’m finally going to have to do something about my temper.  But when Dumbledore said—”

 

“I know,” Harry interrupted.  “You don’t have to tell me.  And you don’t even have to do this if you don’t want to.”

 

“No, I do,” said Ron with a shudder.  “I just can’t stand having him in there any more…especially not with you…not with you and me…”  He trailed off and ran one finger up Harry’s spine.  He looked at Harry, his blue eyes dark with emotion.

 

Harry felt his stomach twist.  He reached up and slid his hand into Ron’s hair.  He pulled Ron’s head down gently and kissed him.  The way Ron kissed him back made him want more.  He pulled away and sat up, turning to climb into Ron’s lap.

 

“Harry, Harry,” said Ron softly.  He took Harry’s glasses from his face and laid them on the floor.  He ran his fingers through Harry’s hair, massaged lightly at the base of his skull and thumbed at his lip.  He slipped his hands over Harry’s shoulders, down his arms and around his back again.  “You’re brilliant,” he said.  “You know that, mate?  Absolutely fucking brilliant.  I can’t look at you now without wanting to kiss you…even with Mum right there with her beady eyes boring into me.”

 

Harry laughed.  Their faces were very close together.  He only had to angle his head just so and then they were kissing again—kissing with hot open mouths, searching lips and tongues, hungry fingers that ate up flesh.   He groaned as Ron yanked up his shirt, cupped his ribs, brushed a finger over a nipple.  A hot leap of desire seized him, making him press into Ron, push his tongue deeper into Ron’s mouth and rub his chest against Ron’s hand.  The blood roared in his head and he knew in another moment they would shove each other to floor where they would lock and tangle, struggle and suck, groan and writhe until they wrung each other dry.  Then Ron’s kiss changed; it softened and he sighed into Harry’s mouth.  Harry could feel the connection, the raw red of desire, strung with blue beads of sorrow.  _What is it, Ron,_ he wondered, _why are you so sad?_   Suddenly he only wanted to cradle Ron, protect him…he wanted to stand over him and snarl like a lion…grow claws and teeth to tear and rip and bite and rend.

 

“It’s a bit complicated, this stuff,” murmured Ron, breaking the kiss and laying his cheek against Harry’s again.  “I can hardly keep track of everything I feel.”

 

“Tell me about it,” said Harry fervently.

 

“But how did you know?” Ron asked.  He tightened his arms around Harry and pulled him into a tighter embrace, putting his forehead on Harry’s shoulder.  “This taking care of you stuff.”  His voice was muffled.  “How did you know it would work?”

 

_How did he know?_   Harry fumbled for an answer.  “Just made sense,” he finally said.  “Pain, cutting, hexing…that drives Gerard back.  But it wasn’t Gerard this time.  You were worried about me and I didn’t think any amount of pain would stop you from worrying about me, right?”  He felt Ron nod.  “Taking care of me…I dunno…it just felt right.  Control, maybe?  The difference between standing on the sidelines, getting more and more anxious…and being able to do something.  Does that make sense?”

 

“Yeah,” said Ron.  “What logic…you’re turning into Hermione, mate.”  He held Harry even tighter and his voice was breaking.  “I’ll always take care of you, Harry,” he said hoarsely.  “I swear.”  He buried his face in Harry shoulder, his shoulders shaking.  

 

“I know, Ron,” said Harry gently.  “I count on it.”

 

Harry remembered the last time Ron had wept.  They had been connected and it hadn’t hurt then and it didn’t hurt now.  He wondered why.  The answer darted around his mind but he couldn’t quite catch it.  So he just let Ron hold him and hide his face in his shoulder while it felt like the whole world was being washed clean with salt.


	29. Chapter 29

  
Author's notes: Another chapter.  This one belongs to [](http://sabine91175.livejournal.com/profile)[**sabine91175**](http://sabine91175.livejournal.com/), who poked it out of me when I was way too busy.  And also to [](http://brumeux77.livejournal.com/profile)[**brumeux77**](http://brumeux77.livejournal.com/), who took the time to beta when he had other things on his mind.  And to [](http://dream-wia-dream.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://dream-wia-dream.livejournal.com/)**dream_wia_dream** who's always so nice and supportive and will be happy to see one more happy chapter for Ron.

 

Anyone who read the preview on the yahoo group:  the has changed somewhat, not a great deal.       
  


Yahoo Group address for anyone who wants to join:  <http://groups.yahoo.com/group/matildabishopsproxyseries/>

WARNING:  SLASH.  Also, this is a serial, updated frequently...just a friendly heads-up for people who prefer to read finished pieces.  


* * *

There was a knock at the door.

 

“Boys?”

 

“’M not coming out.”

 

Ron lay on the floor with his head in Harry’s lap.  Harry sat with his back against the wall.  He was running the fingers of both hands through Ron’s hair, an activity that took a surprising amount of concentration.  He had to notice, for instance, the strands of yellow, gold and brown mixed in with the shining copper of Ron’s hair, as well as linger a moment over the hair’s silkiness.  As he stroked, it looped locks of itself around his fingers as if to stroke him back.  

 

There was another knock at the door.  It was polite, soft, as if only one knuckle knocked, knowing it was intruding.

 

Harry scratched Ron’s scalp lightly.  Ron made a small noise and Harry worked the scalp with his fingertips, feeling a bit like Crookshanks milk-treading.

 

“Boys?”

 

Harry registered Ron’s response—a grumpy _said I’m not coming out_ —but he didn’t pay it much mind.  It seemed far more important he continue stroking his mate’s hair and monitoring the connection, which, at the moment, was so strong Harry could almost see it, almost touch it.  It rolled and pulsed like a living thing, in him, all around him.  He could feel its colors—deep purples and blues, which told him Ron was mostly relaxed, appeased.  But it was shot through with other colors—an angry red, a duller red Harry identified as resentment, a sickly green fear; an opalesque relief; and a white that seemed to be both love and sorrow.  

 

“That’s fine, son.  I just need to know if Harry’s all right.”

 

“He’s all right, Dad.”

 

“Harry?”

 

“Hmmm?  Oh.  I’m fine, Arthur,” Harry said.  He found spots, behind Ron’s ears, that seemed to be tight.  He rubbed them, scratched lightly.

 

“That,” Ron sighed, “feels _so_ good.”  His pale lashes fluttered and his eyes closed.

 

Another knock.  “Erm…may I come in?”

 

Ron opened his eyes and looked at Harry.  Harry raised his eyebrows.  Ron sighed and rolled his eyes to the side.  Finally he nodded.  

 

“Sure, Arthur,” Harry called.  “Come on in.”

 

Harry had expected Ron to sit up, to move away before his father came into the bedroom.  To his surprise, Ron did not sit up.  He did not lift his head from Harry’s lap.  He merely closed his eyes again and turned his face toward Harry’s hip.  

 

Before Harry could react, Mr. Weasley was opening the door.  He looked down at his son, stretched out on the floor, head in Harry’s lap, and at Harry, who had frozen with his hands knuckle-deep in Ron’s hair.  “Ah,” Mr. Weasley said, nodding his head knowingly.  “Did that calm him down, then?”

 

“Erm, no…”  Harry felt his face flushing.  “Not exactly.”  He thought of what _had_ calmed Ron down and decided Mr. Weasley didn’t need to know.  “It does seem to be keeping him calm though…I mean, er, stroking his hair.”  Harry ducked his head to hide his hot face.  “I get little snaps and buzzes in my head…but no pain.  Um…”  Not knowing what else to do, Harry self-consciously started carding Ron’s hair again.

 

Mr. Weasley grunted as he settled himself on the floor, leaning back against the wall next to Harry.  “Well, don’t let me stop you,” he said.  “Go on.  Lord knows we could do with a bit of calm around here.”

 

Harry felt his cheeks burn. _Did he have to sit right next to me?_   _It’s embarrassing.  It was bad enough…I mean I was uncomfortable when Ron stroked my ankle in front of Hermione.  And how look at him.  Head in my lap.  Right in front of his father.  What will he do next?  Snog me in front of Molly?_

 

“Hermione thought you might be stinging him,” Mr. Weasley was saying.  His eyes followed the repetitive movements of Harry’s hands through Ron’s hair.  “As part of a bonded couple, myself…I thought it might be…well, erm…something closer to this.  Molly and I—”

 

Harry didn’t want to hear the rest of the sentence.  “I think we moved beyond stinging hexes,” he said quickly, interrupting Mr. Weasley.  “Ron and I have.”

 

Mr. Weasley nodded.  “Ah.  Good.  Yes.” he said.  “Excellent progress.”

 

_Progress?_ Harry thought, feeling his eyes widen as his face burned even hotter.  _Would Arthur call it progress if he knew what we did in Ron’s bedroom?  Or about the hand-jobs on the bonnet of the car?_        

 

There was a sudden movement from the connection; it contracted and pulled.  Harry paused, forgetting Mr. Weasley as he paid close attention.  The connection seemed to be rising out of the deep, relaxed colors into a lighter, more restless hue.  _Nuh uh, Ron,_ he thought, sinking his fingers in his friend’s hair and scratching lightly at his scalp.  _Stay right where you are.  Nice and calm, mate.  Nice and calm._   

 

“Ron,” Mr. Weasley was staring intently at his son, his brow furrowed.  “The pain—”

 

“He doesn’t need it anymore.”  Harry spoke without thinking.  With his attention focused on Ron, his embarrassment over having Mr. Weasley as an audience was draining away.  He smoothed his hand over Ron’s forehead.  Ron’s nose twitched.  A faint line on his forehead eased itself.

 

“Ah,” said Mr. Weasley.  He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, still studying Ron.  “I’m no expert,” he said thoughtfully.  “That is, Harry…I’ve been a very fortunate man.  I’ve never been in the situation of needing pain before.  It’s quite a foreign idea, to tell you the truth.”  He pulled off his glasses to rub at his eyes.  “Hermione’s explained a few things about, erm, cutting to me,” he said, sighing.  “Her cousin, you know.  She said it had to do with control…controlling one thing when everything else seems so uncontrollable.”  He put his glasses back on, looking weary and lined  “She also said that was simplifying things a great deal…”  His voice died out and he seemed to sag.  Then he sat up abruptly, as though realizing something.  “Harry, for him to give it up…the cutting…that’s rather remarkable, isn’t it?”

 

Harry pulled a handful of hair away from Ron’s neck and gently rubbed at his mate’s neck.  “I’m no expert, either, Arthur,” he said.  “But yeah, it does seem remarkable to me too.”

 

“So, he’s all right, then?”

 

“Dad.”  Ron suddenly spoke up.  He sounded deeply annoyed, and sleepy.  “I’m right here.  You could just ask me.”  He scowled, but he neither opened his eyes nor turned his face from Harry’s hip.

 

“All right then, son,” said Mr. Weasley.  “Are you all right?”

 

“Ha,” Ron snorted.  “Too late,” he muttered.  “Ask Harry.”  His scowl faded.

 

Harry glanced up in time to see Mr. Weasley roll his eyes.  He started to say something to the older wizard but before he could open his mouth, there was a strange ripple in the connection.  Harry froze, his breath hitching.  The connection was going green, the color of still deep water.  Then, there was a little _bloop_ , the sound of a stone going into a pond.

 

“What is it, Harry?” asked Mr. Weasley concerned.  “What’s just happened?”

 

“I don’t know,” said Harry.  “Something that’s never happened before.”  A curious sensation was swelling in his chest.  He had the oddest sensation that he and Ron had just done something very clever…something no one could have expected they’d be able to do.  “It feels like…,” he said, looking up at Mr. Weasley and feeling breathless.  “I don’t know if I can explain it…but it feels like Ron’s just ducked out of sight.”  He looked down at the bright head in his lap.  “I’m mean, he’s here, but he’s gone.  I don’t know how to describe it… _he’s hiding?_   Behind me?  No, that’s not it…”

 

“Well,” Mr. Weasley’s voice came to him from far away.  “He _has_ closed his eyes—that’s hiding in a sense.  He’s avoiding me of course.  Which is understandable.  Neither Molly nor I have handled this situation very well…not to mention we have some rather strange roles in whatever ungodly rubbish Flint’s put into his head.  I’m only glad that you—”

 

“No, no, that’s not it,” Harry murmured, interrupting Mr. Weasley.  His heart was beating hard, expanding, his sense of elation growing.  “It’s not that kind of hiding…it’s something else.  I felt something like it once…no, not very much like it… _that_ was horrible.  _But, this_ —”  Harry put his hand over his heart.  “Arthur,” he said, as a wave of giddiness broke over him, “Could Ron hide _in me_?  Is it possible?”  He laughed, unable to stop himself.  “I feel like he’s a turtle and I’m the shell he’s pulled into.  Can that possibly be?”

 

Mr. Weasley was frowning at Ron, though as he expected his son to vanish before his eyes.  But no, Ron stayed where he was—his head still in Harry’s lap, his eyes closed.  One of his big hands splayed on his chest while the other lay on the floor next to his hip, open and relaxed.  His long legs were relaxed too.  One knee was crooked and leant against the wall.  The other leg stretched out on the floor.

 

Harry gently brushed a lock of hair behind Ron’s ear.  He felt excited and accomplished, as though he and Ron were very clever boys who just managed a complicated trick.  He was certain something important had just happened.

 

Finally, Mr. Weasley spoke.  “You say you feel like he’s gone _inside_ you?”

 

“Yeah,” said Harry, gazing at Ron.  Ron’s face as still and peaceful, his breathing deep and even.  He looked for all the world like he was sleeping but Harry knew he wasn’t.  _He is in me!_ he thought.  _How in the world did he manage that?_   A rush of emotion swept through Harry so fierce he wanted to laugh, to weep, to raise his fist in triumph.  He wanted to fly across the sky and rain down money, candy and gifts on the people below him—so they could feel just a bit of what he was feeling.  Like there were more things in the world than he’d ever dreamed of—brighter colors, higher skies, bigger oceans.  There were caverns underground with strange luminous crystals, there were mountains known only by the stars, forests known only by the dragons.  There were mysteries, undiscovered towns where the people walked on water and sang instead of spoke.  There were skies to drive, roads to fly, paths to walk and miracles to see.  And at the end of it all, there’d be a house somewhere.  Just a simple house with good windows to let in good light and a garden where everything green could grow wild and tangle.   It was a house where two people who’d run to the end of their adventures could go and share a bed and a quiet life.   _That’s where we’ll be, Ron and I,_ Harry thought, nearly bursting with emotion.    _One day…after we’ve done everything in the world there is to do.  We’ll just be, together._   Suddenly everything seemed so simple. __

 

“Lord, Harry.”  

 

Mr. Weasley’s voice pulled Harry out of his reverie.  He turned to look at the older man.

 

“I have indeed felt Molly hide inside me,” Mr. Weasley was saying.  He stared frankly at Harry as though he were a curiosity.  “But, dear boy, not until we’d been together many years.  We’d been a bonded couple for nearly a decade before I felt such a thing.”  Mr. Weasley frowned.  His eyes went beyond Harry, stared distractedly into space.  “This bond you and Ron have,” he said almost more to himself than Harry.  “It must be quite extraordinary…extraordinary indeed.”

 

“What does it mean?” asked Harry, excitedly.  “That he can do that?”

 

“What does it mean?” echoed Mr. Weasley.  “Well, Harry, if Ron can hide inside you, then you’ve become a refuge…a place he can go for shelter.  If something’s too much too bear…”

 

“Oh!” said Harry nodding.  He took a deep breath, trying to slow his heart.  “The extraction, then.  He absolutely hates…loathes the idea of letting Professor Dumbledore into his thoughts.   Dumbledore will see everything, right?  The things Ron dislikes about himself, all the petty little things he’s done or thought and is ashamed of…plus all the things Gerard Flint thinks happened with Molly.  And yet, Ron’s had it with Flint.  Flint makes him feel contaminated…unclean.  And he’s tired, Arthur.  Just tired.  He needs it to stop.”  Harry gazed down at Ron’s face, at the dark shadows under his mate’s eyes.  At his paler than normal skin.  _I’m a refuge,_ Harry thought, his heart filling up again.  _A safe place.”_

 

“Is he going to go through with the extraction, then?” Mr. Weasley asked softly.  His hand reached out as though he might touch his son’s cheek.  At the last moment, he seemed to think the better of it, and drew back.     

 

“Well,” said Harry.  He trailed his finger over the cheek Mr. Weasley had been about to touch.  His embarrassment at having Mr. Weasley watch him touch Ron so intimately had vanished.  The urge to touch Ron was too strong and Harry suspected Mr. Weasley understood.  “Ron had made up his mind to go through with the extraction,” he finally said, moving his hand from Ron’s cheek to his hair.  “But he wasn’t, you know, enthused or anything.  Then Professor Dumbledore said that thing about Flint’s thoughts being useful to the Order…”

 

“Yes,” said Mr. Weasley wincing.  “We all noticed Ron reacted to that rather strongly.”  He sighed.  “I do wish he had let Albus finish his sentence.  He would have found out…well,” Mr. Weasley shook his head.  “Really, Ron should know that Albus wouldn’t parade the contents of his head around like juicy gossip.  But he’s such a hothead, our Ron.  Like his mother, he is.  Bellow like a wounded dragon first, ask questions later.” 

 

“Well,” said Harry, laughing.  “It did give him an excuse to leave the room.  Which is what he really wanted.”

 

“Will he do it?”

 

Harry took a deep breath.  “That’s the thing, Arthur.  I think he’s asking me to decide.  That’s why he’s gone inside of me”—Harry couldn’t help the burst of laughter that came out with this sentence.  He didn’t know why, but the idea that Ron could go inside him made him positively overflow.  “Let Flint stay?” Harry went on, smiling down at Ron’s quiet face.  “Let Dumbledore in?   Right now Ron’s thinking, how about neither?  So, I think he’s asking me to decide…and trusting me to make the right decision.”

 

Mr. Weasley nodded, as though everything Harry had said sounded reasonable to him.  “So, Harry, what _do_ you decide?”

 

“Well, what if Dumbledore does see something that is useful to the Order?”

 

“If he does,” Mr. Weasley said without hesitation, “he’ll tell Ron.  He’ll discuss it with Ron and give Ron the option of sharing it with the Order.  He’ll let Ron decide how the information is shared, whether Dumbledore puts it in a Pensieve or simply makes a report.  The headmaster did say that _Ron_ is in possession of Flint’s thoughts and memories.  He believes that they belong by default to Ron and that Ron is the one who will have to decide what to do with them.”  

 

Harry nodded.  “Then he’ll go through with the extraction,” he said firmly.

 

Mr. Weasley leaned forward.  He looked down at Ron, frowning.  “He hasn’t moved at all, Harry,” he said, his eye flicking from Ron’s head to his shoe.  “Is he really allowing you to commit him?  Is he paying attention to what we’re saying?”

 

“Paying attention?” Harry said, the laughter bursting out of him again.  “Well, you know Ron.  I feel like I’m looking at the back of his head.  Like he’s playing chess and I’m telling him there’s homework to be done.  But,” he added, “there’s also a sense of relief.  The decision has been made—that kind of relief.”

 

Mr. Weasley laughed too.  “Remarkable,” he said.  “Truly remarkable.  Harry—” Mr. Weasley gave Harry a sharp look—“I know you must feel exhilarated right now…you certainly look that way, dear boy.  Your face is shining.”

 

Harry felt himself flushing, still he couldn’t help grinning back at Mr. Weasley.  

 

“Just remember…that’s its no easy thing.  Just because you love someone, even a bond mate—”

 

“Arthur,” said Harry earnestly, “believe me…this is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

 

“Yes,” said Mr. Weasley, nodding and meeting Harry’s eyes.  “I know.  I remember.  I’ve been there.  Easiest thing I ever did too…loving Molly.  But”—he grimaced—“how do I say this?  Harry”—he looked squarely at Harry again.  “It won’t always be easy.  These things take work, no matter how devoted the partners.  And Ron is like his mother, Harry…volatile, hot-tempered.  Believe me, I know.  It’s not always easy to be bonded to a constantly erupting volcano.  But more than Ron’s nature, Harry, I worry about his heart.  As loyal and fierce and steady as that boy’s heart is, it is also easily bruised.  And we both know Ron can be grudgy, Harry.  When he’s hurt, he only knows how to get angry.  And when he’s angry, he can’t always find the way back by himself.”

 

“I know that, Arthur,” said Harry.  “I _do_ know.  I’ll help him, right?  And he’ll help me.  It’s what…bond mates do.” Harry had nearly said _lovers_ , but something had stopped him.  _Lovers_ —for the moment Harry wanted to keep that just between him and Ron.  _Right now,_ he thought, _it belongs only to me and Ron.  When other people know, it will belong a little bit to them too.  Just for a while…I want to be ours…only ours…mine and Ron’s._

 

“…thing is, Harry,” Mr. Weasley had been talking while Harry had been thinking.  “A bond, it’s such a powerful thing.  And it can be…oh, beyond wonderful, Harry.  That intoxicating, first-love-passion…you get to keep it.  Oh well, right, it _does_ come and go, but you never really lose it.  But passion, Harry…is passion.  If passion ever sours…”  Mr. Weasley shook his head.  “Try to understand, Harry.  When passion goes bad, people who have loved each other madly can start to hate each other with equal intensity.  And that’s just non-magical passion.  When a bond goes sour, is corrupted, it’s much, much worse…”

 

Harry was already shaking his head.  “It won’t happen, Arthur,” he said.  “I can feel it.  It won’t go bad.  I’ll do whatever it takes to keep it pure.”

 

“Yes, Harry, I know you will,” said Mr. Weasley, a bit grimly.  “I’m counting on you.  And I’m counting you, son, to teach Ron as well.  I have a feeling it might be more difficult for him than for you.”

 

“Don’t worry, Arthur,” said Harry.  He looked down at Ron’s face.  He cupped Ron’s face with one hand.  He rubbed his thumb over Ron’s cheek, loving the curving lines of Ron’s mouth, the red-gold of his eyelashes, the translucent skin under the freckles.  _How could this ever go bad?_ Harry thought.  _I won’t let it._   “I won’t let it go sour, Arthur,” he said, looking back up at the older wizard.  

 

“Of course you won’t,” said Mr. Weasley gently.  “Just remember…when times get hard…and they will, Harry.  When times get hard, remember you are Ron’s refuge…and he is yours.”

 

“I’ll remember,” Harry said.  He locked eyes with Mr. Weasley and refused to look away, so fierce was his desire that the older man believe him.  Finally Mr. Weasley smiled, nodded and looked down.

 

“Arthur,” said Harry.  Mr. Weasley’s warnings had been sobering and Harry wanted to snatch back the sweet, dizzy happiness he’d felt when Ron had slipped inside him.  _There will be time enough for seriousness, later,_ he thought.  “Arthur,” he said again.  “If you don’t mind me asking…how did it first happen with you and Molly?  The bonding, I mean.    How did your bond first manifest?  If it’s too personal,” he added quickly, “forget I said anything.”

 

“No, no,” said Mr. Weasley quickly.  “It’s all right.”  Harry noticed the older man was flushing all the same.  “It was remarkably similar to your manifestation, actually.  Molly and I had been married a year or two and we had Bill.  Bill was a colicky baby—colic! that’s a hell I hope you never have to go through.  Anyway, Bill was screaming his lungs out one evening and Molly was trying to sing to him.  But she was tired, just new mother exhausted, about out of her mind.”  Mr. Weasley chuckled at the memory.  “Those were some days, Harry.  Molly was trying to quiet Bill with her family’s healing song, but she couldn’t quite manage it.  Finally, she snapped, ‘Arthur, get over here and help me!’  I wasn’t sure what she thought I could do, but I drew my chair close to her to let her know I was there.  I think I gave her an encouraging smile or nodded or something, I really don’t remember.  She started singing again.  I looked at her…she was out of sorts and red-faced.  Then I looked at the baby…he was out of sorts and red-faced _and_ screaming his head off…and I thought that I had never seen anything so beautiful…my lovely little family.  I just felt myself fill up with love, Harry, for Molly and Bill…and that’s when it happened.  I’d never be able to describe what it felt like…but I think you know.  Just a flood of magic washing over me…like a giant hand had come down to bless me.  Just peaceful…like angels and phoenixes were singing together.”  He laughed and pushed up his glasses.  “Sounds over the top, I know, but there you have it.  Actually, Harry,” he said, getting to his feet.  “I don’t think I’d try to describe that to anyone else.  It would sound a bit mad, wouldn’t it?  But I think you understand.”

 

Harry nodded fervently.  “I do,” he said.  He looked at Ron’s face, still and pale and lovely.  “I really do.”

 

* * *

 

Harry thumped Ron on the forehead.  “All right, you,” he said.  “He’s gone.  Come out of there.”

 

Ron didn’t open his eyes, but his lips quirked into a smirk.  He sniggered, then exhaled, settling even more comfortably into Harry’s lap.

 

Harry snorted.   He sucked on his finger, thoroughly wetting it and blowing on it to make it cold.  Then he shoved it into Ron’s ear.

 

“Oy!”  Ron sat up.  He turned to glare at Harry.

 

Harry burst out laughing.  He felt giddy, exhilarated, like he’d plunged his head into a vat of cheering potion.  “I can’t believe you, Ron,” he said shoving lightly at Ron’s shoulder.  “You were hiding.  Like a bad kid.  You big git.”

 

“Well, it was bloody embarrassing, it was,” protested Ron, rolling his eyes.  “My father.”  He rolled his eyes.  “Coming to have a look at me with my head in your lap.”

 

“Well, you might have sat up,” Harry said, shoving Ron again.  He was so buoyant and pleased he felt like rough-housing.  

 

“No way,” said Ron, shoving back.  “I was way too comfortable.  Besides,” he grinned at Harry, “we have to keep me calm, you know…or your head will explode.”  He put his fingers against Harry’s temples and mimed an explosion.

 

“So you left me to deal with it,” said Harry, laughing again, ferociously happy.  He grabbed Ron by the shirt front and yanked him forward.  “Left me to clean up the mess, you prat.”

 

Ron let Harry yank him forward.  He fell against Harry, letting his weight and momentum tumble them both over.  “Gotcha,” he said, stretching out happily on top of Harry.  “You did all right,” he added, pushing up Harry’s glasses which had slid down his nose.  “But mate, you did have to let him get all squishy and gooey?”  Ron made a face.  “You would have hidden too if you had to listen to your dad burble on about his bond love.  ‘Like angels and phoenixes were singing together…’”

 

“All right well,” Harry admitted grinning.  “That was a bit sweet.”  He squirmed, filled to brimming with the joy of being under Ron again.  Of having so much of Ron pressed to so much of him.

 

“Sweet!” yelled Ron.  “It was revolting!  Absofuckinglutely disgusting!”  He put his hands on Harry’s ribs and started tickling him.

 

Harry yelped and snatched at Ron’s hands.  “Stop it, you arse…get your hands off my—ow!”  Harry planted one foot squarely on the ground and shoved hard.  He managed to flip the two of them over so he was on top of Ron.  He made sure he landed hard enough to make Ron _ooff_ out his air.

 

“Hey!” said Ron, wriggling under Harry.  “You’re supposed to be taking care of me.”

 

“No,” said Harry.  “ _You_ were taking care of _me_ , remember?”  He snatched Ron’s wrists when Ron made to tickle him again and held them pinned against the floor.  “You owe me one, Weasley,” he growled playfully, putting his mouth next to Ron’s ear.  “You hid and left all the hard stuff for me.”

 

“Knowing me,” said Ron, sniggering and straining up to lick Harry’s neck.  “Does that surprise you?”

 

“No,” said Harry.  He pushed Ron’s wrists more firmly against the floor.  “I’ve seen you dump your prefect duties on Hermione enough times.  But you still owe me.  Now lie still and be a good boy, right?  I gotta keep you calm, like you say.  So my head won’t explode.”  Harry gripped Ron’s wrists even tighter and ground his crotch against Ron’s.

 

“Hang on, Harry,” said Ron with a slight gasp.  “If we do this again today, we’ll tear the skin right off our bloody dicks.”  Despite his words, he pushed his crotch back against Harry’s.  He was already hard.

 

“Is that a problem?” asked Harry teasingly.  He licked Ron’s ear and shifted his hips so his hard cock rubbed against Ron’s.  “Tell you what, mate,” he said.  He let go of one of Ron’s wrists and slid his hand down and over the lump in Ron’s trousers.  “I’ll be gentle.  Real gentle.  I’ll just kiss it a little.”  He undid the button on Ron’s jeans.

 

“Kiss it?”  Ron’s voice ran up like a girl’s.  “You’ll kiss it…you don’t mean—”

 

“A blow job?” asked Harry innocently.  He released Ron’s other wrist and slid down his body so his face was level with Ron’s crotch.  “Yeah, I do.”  He put his mouth on the hard outline of Ron’s cock and blew warm damp air through Ron’s jeans.

 

“Oh no, Harry, no,” gasped Ron, his back arching.  “We can’t do this…”

 

“Sure we can,” said Harry.  He grabbed Ron’s zip.  “I mean, I’ve never done it, but how hard can it be?  Open mouth, insert—”

 

“Stop!” Ron grabbed, groaning, for Harry’s hands.  “Oy, mate!  Think of Dumbledore.”

 

“Think of Dumbledore?” echoed Harry, breathing hot air on Ron’s crotch again.  “When I’m on top of you?  I don’t think so.”

 

“Harry,” moaned Ron.  “If you do this…oh shit…Harry, don’t undo my zip.  Harry…shit…fuck.  Merlin on a crutch, Harry!  Stop!  Any minute now, Dumbledore’s going to look in my head.  He’ll be expecting to see Gerard.  So how’s it going to look if he sees the top of your head instead, mate?  Stop laughing!”

 

But Harry couldn’t help it.  He was laughing so hard, he was nearly howling.  He grabbed Ron by the hips and buried his face in his crotch to muffle the sound.

 

“That is NOT HELPING!” shouted Ron.  He tried to squirm away from Harry’s hands, Harry’s hot mouth, but his legs were trapped under Harry’s body.  “HARRY!”

 

“All right, all right,” Harry finally said, gasping.  He slid back up Ron’s body and, laughing, pushed his mate back down.  “You win,” he said, folding his arms on Ron’s chest and propping his chin on them.  “I won’t give you a blow job.”

 

“Aw fuck,” groaned Ron.  His face was flushed and he was still squirming, pressing his hard cock against Harry’s.  “Shit.”

 

Harry took pity on his mate and rolled to the side.  He lay next to Ron, the giddiness bubbling madly in his chest.  He sniggered.

 

“You are evil, mate,” gasped Ron.  “Pure evil.”  He took a few deep breaths.  “Dumbledore’s already going to get an eyeful, right?  Think of everything we’ve done just in the past, god, how long has it been?—snogging in the bathroom, naked stuff in my bedroom, hand-jobs of the bonnet of the car.  Dumbledore’s going to see everything, mate,” Ron muttered. “It’s bloody embarrassing.”

 

“So what?” said Harry.  He flipped to his side, put his chin on Ron’s shoulder and threw his arm across his mate’s chest.  “Dumbledore’ll survive.  He’s a Legilimens, has been for a long time.  I’m sure he’s seen everything by now.”

 

“Yeah, right,” grumbled Ron.  “Well, still…he hasn’t seen me.  He hasn’t seen you.”  His hand closed around Harry’s arm.

 

They lay still for a while, Harry happily breathing in the scent of Ron’s hair, his warm neck.

 

Finally Ron said, “Harry?”  

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Promise me.”

 

“Promise you what?”

 

“Promise me you’ll never make me turn down a blow job again.”

 

Harry started laughing.  He gripped Ron’s chest and doubled-up snorting and gasping until his sides ached.  He was still laughing when another knock came on the door.

 

“Oi, Ron.”

 

It was Bill.

 

“Come on, kiddo.  Dumbledore’s ready for you.”

  



	30. Chapter 30

  
Author's notes: *nods to brumuex77*  Thanks again for the fast beta.

  


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WARNING:  SLASH.  Also, this is a serial, updated frequently...just a friendly heads-up for people who prefer to read finished pieces.  


* * *

Bill knocked on the bedroom door and Harry stopped laughing immediately.  He and Ron sat up and exchanged looks.  “Dumbledore’s ready for you, kiddo,” Bill called and Ron sighed.  “This is it, then, mate,” he said to Harry, his voice resigned.  Harry prepared himself for a headache, a stab of pain…but it didn’t come.  For a horrible moment, Harry thought he’d lost the connection.  The moment he searched for it, however, he found it, moving restlessly like thick liquid.  Its colors seemed to swirl, change every minute.  He looked at Ron and Ron looked back.  There was a faint worry crease on Ron’s brow, yet he looked calm.  _He’s still unhappy about having to do this,_ Harry thought.  _So why don’t I have a headache?_   Then the answer hit him.  _Ron’s not scared any more, not worried.  He’s accepted it._

 

“I’m ready, mate,” Ron said, getting to his feet and holding out his hand to pull Harry up too.  “I just want to get it over with now,” he added. 

 

Bill opened the door then and raised his eyebrows at Ron.  Ron nodded at Bill, then turned back to Harry.  Still holding Harry’s hand, he pulled Harry into a tight brief hug.  “See you on the other side,” he whispered in Harry’s ear.  

 

_See you on the other side?_   For a moment, Harry was been confused.  Then his stomach lurched horribly.  “Wait,” he said, “you don’t mean…Ron!  I’m coming with you.”

 

Ron shook his head.  “Sorry, mate,” he said resolutely.  “You’re not.”  He joined Bill in the doorway.  “Let’s go,” he said to his older brother.

 

“Wait just a fucking minute,” Harry cried.  He made to grab Ron’s arm, but at that moment there was a commotion on the landing.  Mrs. Weasley pushed past Ron and burst noisily into the room.  “Harry, dear,” she said breathlessly.  “I need to sever the connection.”

 

“What?” Harry felt another terrible lurch—and a flash of anger.  “You, wait,” he commanded, glaring at Ron.  When Ron nodded, Harry turned to Mrs. Weasley.  “Molly?  Sever the bond?”  He had to struggle to keep his voice calm.  “Whatever do you mean?”

 

“Connection,” Mrs. Weasley corrected.  “For your own protection, dear, we need to sever the connection.”

 

“No,” Harry said, firmly.  He took a step away from Mrs. Weasley.  “I can’t let you do that.”

 

“Harry—” Mrs. Weasley began.

 

Ron gave a snort of laughter.

 

Harry felt his temper rise.  Ron meant to bar him from the extraction?  Molly wanted to sever his bond?  And what the hell was Ron laughing at?  He rounded on Ron.  “What’s so bleeding funny?” he asked hotly.  

 

“It might actually be dangerous for you to be connected to Ron”—  Mrs. Weasley had pivoted and was bearing down on Harry with her wand raised.  

 

Harry side-stepped her.  He made for Ron who had retreated further out on the landing, laughing openly.  “What are you on about?” Harry demanded.

 

\--“while Dumbledore performs the extraction.”  Mrs. Weasley had turned with Harry and followed him.  He saw her wand move in the corner of his eye.

 

“Mum!” Bill cried.  He was suddenly between Harry and Mrs. Weasley.  “Get a hold of yourself. Harry said _no_.”

 

“ _Harry_ seized last night, Bill!” Mrs. Weasley cried, her voice rising sharply.  “Which you might have noticed if you hadn’t been dead pickled in Firewhiskey!” 

 

“Dad,” Bill yelled over his shoulder.  He was backing Mrs. Weasley toward the bed.  ”Dad!  You better get up here!  Mum, sit down.”

 

“DON’T YOU TELL ME TO SIT DOWN, BILL WEASLEY!”

 

Ron was laughing so hard he had to lean against the wall.  Harry wanted to throttle him.  He glared at his mate.

 

“Sorry, sorry,” Ron said, holding up his hands.  “Sorry.”  He snorted, shaking his head.  “It’s just that…aw, Harry don’t look at me like that. Come here.”  He grabbed Harry’s shoulder and pulled him out of the room just as Mr. Weasley came bustling in.  He was grinning, Harry noticed, that damned endearing crooked grin of his.  “Your face is red, mate,” Ron said leaning his forehead against Harry’s.  “And there’s this blood vein in your temple—”

 

“Oh bugger yourself,” Harry snapped.  He pushed Ron away.  “You bloody idiot.”

 

“Sorry,” Ron said again.  His grin had softened but the corners of his lips were still turned up as he said, “I wasn’t laughing at you, mate.  I was laughing because”—he gestured at his parents and Bill—“this is just so bloody typical…this family…we go spare on a daily basis, don’t we?  Fight like mad about what we’re going to do…then fight like mad about how we’re going to do it.  Want to make a simple decision?  Don’t do it here.”  He laughed again.  “Come on, Harry,” he said, squeezing Harry’s shoulder.  “Enough with the scary face.”

 

Harry wanted to shout.  He wanted to scream, _you’re missing the point, arse!_ “I’m not angry because you’re laughing,” he said hotly.  “And I’m hardly surprised your mum is chasing me around with her wand _…_ though if she thinks I’m going to let her sever my connection…”  Harry heard his voice rising and stopped himself.  He took a deep breath, trying again to calm himself.“It’s just that… _fuck!”_   Harry couldn’t go on.Part of him understood.  Part of him knew Ron was about to submit to something pretty hideous and deserved to decide for himself who was there and who wasn’t to witness.  But the other part—the larger part—just wanted to shake Ron and cry, _I need to be there!_   W _hy don’t you need me?_   

 

The voices in the room were louder now.

 

“He doesn’t want me to sever the connection, Arthur.”

 

“There other things we can do, Molly.” Mr. Weasley said in his most placating voice.

 

“But he seized last night, Arthur!  A seizure!  We can’t take that chance again.”

 

Ron looked over Harry’s shoulder.  “Don’t worry about them, mate,” he said, pulling Harry further out onto the landing while the voices in the bedroom rose to shouts.  Dad’ll win this one,” Ron said, giving Harry another lop-sided grin.  “He’ll sort Mum out.”

 

Harry gave a grudging nod.  “Right,” he said brusquely.  He glared at Ron again.  “Well, then, what’s this crap about me not going with you?  I want”—to his horror, Harry felt a prickling behind his eyes—“I want to be with you.”

 

Ron’s hand was still on Harry’s shoulder.  He let it slide down Harry’s arm.  He took Harry’s hand.  “Sorry, mate,” he said gently.  “Can you just let me go with Bill, yeah?  It’s…” he sighed.  “It’s going to be ugly, all right?  I just don’t want you to see me like that.”

 

Harry didn’t say anything more.  Not outwardly at least.  He sat on the stairs, shoulder to shoulder with Ron as they waited for Mr. and Mrs. Weasley to come to a decision that wasn’t really theirs to make.  He absorbed the warmth of Ron’s arm next to his and took comfort from Ron’s smallest finger gently stroking his.  But all the while a furious voice in his head was screaming.  _You’re wrong, mate!_ it cried. _You’re wrong!_

 

* * *

 

Harry sat glowering on Percy’s bed.  His arms were folded and his face was burning.  He was trying to decide if he wanted to blub like a girl or punch a hole in the wall.  _Fucking Ron,_ he thought.  He ignored the knock on Percy’s door.  It’s not like he didn’t know who it was anyway.  “Go away, Hermione,” he said furiously.

 

“I’m not Hermione, dumbarse.”

 

“Fine.  Go the _fuck_ away, Charlie.”

 

“Sure, I’ll go away.”  Charlie opened the door and poked his head in.  Ignoring Harry’s scowl, he said, “Just thought you might like these.”  He tossed something at Harry.

 

Harry put his hand up reflexively, caught the thing spinning toward him.  It was peach-colored and stringy.  “Extendible Ears!” he exclaimed softly, staring at the loops and coils in his hand.

 

“The recording type.”  Charlie winked.  “Now stop being such a brat, willya kiddo?”  He closed the door.

 

* * *

 

Hermione had tried her level best to console Harry, even though she had to have known she was wasting her time.  “Harry,” she’d said.  “He’ll be fine.  He’s with Dumbledore, for heaven’s sake.  Will you please come outside?  Some of the Order members would really like to see you.  And honestly, Harry, I think Professor Lupin needs you more right now than Ron does.”

 

Harry had only glared at her.  What could he do for Lupin? he’d wondered furiously, refusing to think that only a month ago, Lupin had been distraught enough over Sirius’s death to burn Grimmauld Place down.  He’d turned to stare out the kitchen window, watching Arabella Figg who been sitting on the garden bench next to Crookshanks.  The two had been nose to nose, Crookshanks’s tail switching furiously.  It had looked to Harry as though the cat and the old Squib were deep in conversation.

 

“Harry—” Hermione had begun.

 

“At least no one severed my connection,” Harry had interrupted her, spitting the words out angrily.  

 

Hermione had seized on the topic.  “Arthur did something,” she’d said eagerly.  “What did he do?”

 

Harry had folded his arms, continuing to glare out of the kitchen window.  “A basic protection spell using the fundamentals of Occlumency,” he’d said shortly to Hermione, quoting Mr. Weasley.  “Something I’ll learn to do it automatically as Ron and I adjust to this bond-mate crap.”  He’d turned away from the window.  “It feels stupid,” he’d added bitterly.  “Like I’m wearing a fucking frozen motorcycle helmet.”

 

He’d left then, waving Hermione away when she’d tried to say something else.  He’d stomped two flights up the twisty stairs to Percy’s old bedroom, slammed the door and flung himself on the bed.

 

* * *

 

Harry crept up the stairs as silently as he could.  When he got to the landing, he could see Ron’s bedroom door.  It was open and he could hear voices coming from it.

 

“Do you want me to close the door?” Bill asked.

 

“Can we leave it open?” Ron said.  “I already feel a bit, um…”

 

_Trapped,_ Harry thought, finishing the sentence for Ron.

 

“I was thinking, um…well, it might get a little stuffy in here,” Ron said.  He sounded nervous.

 

“Shall I make a bit of cooling breeze?” Dumbledore’s voice was calm, soft but it floated clearly to Harry’s ears.

 

“Yes, please,” said Ron.  “But can we still leave the door open?”

 

“Certainly, Ronald.”

 

Harry pulled the Extendible Ears out of his pocket and put them down on the steps.  But just as they began to wriggle their way toward the bedroom, Harry snatched them up again.  _Hold on_ , he thought _.  I don’t need these._   _Not when the door is open._   He turned, rushing as quietly as he could down to Percy old bedroom.  In a moment, he’d returned, slipping his Invisibility Cloak over his head.

 

* * *

 

Harry was glad of Dumbledore’s cooling breeze.  Without it, he would have been stifling hot under his cloak.  As it was, he was too warm, but he soon forgot his discomfort as he watched the scene unfolding in Ron’s bedroom.

 

There was now a small battered table in the center of the room, along with three ladder-back chairs that seemed to match it.  Since Harry had never seen the table or the chairs in the Burrow, he suspected Dumbledore had drawn them up in the same way he’d drawn up the squashy chair at the hearing at the Ministry a year ago.  Ron and Bill were sitting on one side of the table and Dumbledore was sitting on the other side.  Ron had his elbows on the table and his chin propped on one fist; Bill’s arm was across the back of Ron’s chair and he touched his brother’s shoulder lightly.  Dumbledore leaned across the table.  His wand was no where in sight but he looked intently into Ron’s eyes.

 

It was fully night now and the window was black, reflecting splotches of light from the lamps in Ron’s bedroom.  

 

Dumbledore held Ron’s gaze for a long time, long enough for Harry to realize that the coldness of his frozen motorcycle helmet had faded.  He could still feel the protection spell in place but it was no longer distractingly tight and chill around his head.  He was also aware of his connection to Ron.  It was there, but muted in a curious way.  _It’s a bit_ _like,_ Harry thought, _I’m holding Ron’s hand…only we’re both wearing gloves_. He didn’t like it.  

 

Harry also noticed there was something different about Ron’s room.  There shouldn’t have been enough space in the tiny room for a table and three chairs among Ron’s bed, his bureau and the titling stacks of his books and other school things.  Harry let his eyes move from one side of the room to the other, noticing that Ron’s bed seemed to bow away from the table as though it were sucking in to make room for the table.  The bureau seemed to have flattened itself against the wall.  It was rather thinner than it usually was and it stretched up higher as though it were standing on tip-toe.  The Cannons players that usually swooped in and out of the poster on the wall were absent.  Harry wondered if Dumbledore had asked them if they’d step out of the frame to give Ron some privacy.  Neither Hedwig nor Pigwidgeon were in the cages on top of the bureau.  Harry supposed they were both out hunting for the night.  There was hardly any room for Harry himself.  He had slipped through the door in sock feet, holding the cloak tightly to him to keep it from rustling.  He now sat on the floor with his back against the wall and his knees pulled tight into his chest, trying to take up as little space as possible.  

 

“Like a brick wall.”

 

Dumbledore’s sudden, firm voice startled Harry.

 

“Sorry, sir?” said Ron.  He seemed surprised too.  Harry saw him lift his chin slightly from his curled fist.

 

“It’s like looking at a brick wall,” said Dumbledore, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers.  “You have an extremely guarded mind, Ronald.  You are, I dare say, a natural Occlumens.”

 

“Me?”  Ron said incredulously.  He glanced at Bill.  “Are you sure you’re looking in the right mind, Professor?”

 

Dumbledore laughed.  “I am absolutely sure, Ronald,” he said.

 

Ron frowned.  “But everyone says I’m so easy to read.”  Through the Invisibility Cloak, Harry could see a flush beginning to spread on his mate’s face.

 

“I assume when people say that they are referring to your emotional nature, Ronald,” said Dumbledore thoughtfully as he watched Ron’s face redden further.  “It’s true that you cannot easily hide your emotions.  But those who say they can read you so easily might be surprised if they knew the thoughts that trigger your emotions.  They might discover they had badly misread you.”

 

“Sorry, sir,” said Ron.  He shoved his fringe out of his eyes and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.  “I don’t really understand…I’m mean, I’m a little nervous…so I might be a bit thicker than usual.”

 

Dumbledore sighed.  “Thick, Ronald?  I think not.   Quite the contrary, rather.”  He leaned forward and looked deep into Ron’s eyes.  Harry saw Ron flinch and thought his mate looked as though he’d rather eat slugs than maintain eye contact with Dumbledore, yet he did not look away.  “You do have high expectations of yourself, yes…and you do not believe in yourself nearly as much as you should.  But believe me, dear boy, I see…and I daresay I see quite clearly more often than not...I see a bright mind…a strong, brave mind.  And a heart more than equal to the tasks ahead.”  Dumbledore sat back in his chair again, now looking extremely pleased.

 

“Tasks ahead,” Bill muttered to himself.  “About that…”  He frowned and glanced away, shaking his head.

 

“But, Professor.” Ron was frowning too.  “If you see all that, what’s all this about a brick wall?”

 

“Ah,” said Dumbledore.  “I merely meant that while you perhaps do not keep your emotions under guard, your thoughts are an entirely different matter.  In short, I cannot, despite my exceptional talents as a Legilimens, see your thoughts.”

 

“But, but,” said Ron, clearly thrown.  “How do you see a bright mind…hey, wait a minute!  Professor, Harry could see my thoughts.  He…erm,” Ron looked down at the table, reddening further, “did a Legilimens on me.  We didn’t know we weren’t supposed to.  Harry saw everything, sir.  I felt like my head was made of glass.”

 

“I’m sure he did, Ronald,” said Dumbledore, looking even more pleased than ever.  “Harry saw your thoughts because you allowed him to.”

 

“But what…” Ron sighed, broke off.  He looked at Bill for clarification.

 

“The Professor only means you trust Harry, dummy,” said Bill, patting Ron’s shoulder.  Bill still looked grim and Harry knew he was thinking about Dumbledore’s ominous words, _tasks ahead_.  

 

“Quite right, William,” said Dumbledore to Bill.  “Harry is perhaps the only one Ronald would let so easily into his mind.  Trust,” he added, positively beaming.

 

_What’s Dumbledore so sodding happy about?_ wondered Harry.

 

“I trust you too, sir,” said Ron, studying the table top carefully as he picked at a large chip of paint.  His face was spectacularly red.

 

“You might _want_ to trust me, Ronald,” said Dumbledore.  His voice was kind as he watched Ron flick away the paint chip and start on another.  “But there are also things in your head that you obviously don’t wish me to see—”

 

“Yeah, urm…about that,” said Ron, crunching the second paint chip to bits with his thumb.  

 

“Not to worry, Ronald,” said Dumbledore.  His voice was calm but Harry thought he saw a flicker of a smile on Dumbledore’s lined face.  “What I see in your mind tonight will never been mentioned again.  Your private thoughts are just that.  There is no reason I or anyone else should know the things you keep in your head.  I am only sorry that this extraction must be done and I apologize beforehand for my imposition.”

 

“I, er…apologize too, Professor,” muttered Ron, dipping his head and letting his fringe fall over his face.  “For anything you might see in my mind…”

 

If Ron’s face had gone any redder it would have burst into flames and Harry’s own face was burning now.  He was suddenly glad Ron had turned down his offer of a blowjob though at the time he’d been pretty keen to give it a go.  There were enough naughty moments in Ron’s mind to be going on with without adding in the long slow licking Harry had had in mind.  Harry’s stomach flipped now as he remembered how intently Ron had watched him come to climax on the bonnet of the Anglia.  _Oh fuck,_ he thought, _Dumbledore’s going to see what I look like when I come.  I didn’t think I’d mind much…but now that the moment is here, it’s bloody embarrassing._ His stomach went cold and hot in turns as he thought of all the lovely moments he and Ron had had together in the past twelve hours…tussling starkers in Ron’s bedroom; frantically wiggling out of their clothes so they could rub against each other; Ron tonguing his nipple, licking his ribs; Ron saying, _Harry, wear my things, please say yes,_ and making it sound like a marriage proposal…

 

“What I see in your mind,” Dumbledore said again, “will never be mentioned.  And I would that I did not have to intrude so rudely where I do not belong.  Unfortunately, dear boy, we do have the problem of Gerard Flint.  You don’t want him in your head and I feel he simply must come out.  He is more than an unpleasant, unwanted intruder.  Indeed, he is foul enough to have made you quite ill.”

 

Harry heard Bill mutter; he saw his hand tighten on Ron’s shoulder.  And while Dumbledore’s face was as calm as ever, Harry knew him well enough to see the concern in his eyes.  Harry glanced at Ron and saw him as Dumbledore must be seeing him—too thin and tight-faced.  Dark circles under his eyes and plucking nervously at the long sleeves that hid his scars.

 

“Gerard Flint _is_ foul,” Ron said darkly.  “You’re dead on there, sir.”

 

Harry was suddenly aware of the connection, muted though it was.  It rolled at him, yellow and green, shooting off spikes of anxiety.  He felt it strike the protection shield, diverge and run out like ribbons that twisted and tied themselves up in knots.  He nearly put out his hand to Ron…then he remembered he wasn’t supposed to be here.  Wasn’t supposed to be crouched under his Invisibility Cloak listening at doors like the veteran eavesdropper he was.  The connection rolled at him again, bubbling like hot mud before it faded to gray.  Harry sighed, grudgingly glad, finally, that the Weasleys had pressed the protection shield on him.  _Without it,_ he thought, watching as Ron’s knee jiggled nervously, _I’m sure I’d be twitching on the ground by now.  But_ , another thought occurred to him.  _A brick wall?_ _If Dumbledore can’t see into Ron’s mind, how will he get at Gerard’s memories?_

 

Bill seemed to be thinking the same thing.  “I assume, Professor,” he said.  His hand had moved to Ron’s back and he rubbed lightly between his brother’s shoulder-blades as he spoke.  “That you have ways of getting over or under this wall you said Ron has over his thoughts.”

 

“I do indeed,” said Dumbledore, looking at Bill over his half-moon spectacles.  “I could simply smash through the wall but that would be violent, messy, painful, not to mention unethical.”  He turned back to Ron, continuing on calmly.  “I could also teach you, Ronald, to consciously lower your guard.  You lowered it instinctively, automatically, when Harry reached into your mind.  I could teach you to lower it intentionally as well.  Unfortunately that would take quite some time, months, perhaps, and we do not have that luxury.  You have borne this long enough.  Therefore, I’d like to ask your permission to use a sedation spell.  Will you allow me to sedate you…as you allowed me to sedate you in order to put you in the lake during the Triwizard championship?”

 

“Are you going to put me to sleep, then, sir?” Ron asked, lifting his eyes from the table top to Dumbledore’s.  

 

Harry felt a small, muffled stir in the connection and a zip of a hopeful blue color.  _Ron would prefer to sleep through this,_ he thought.

 

But Dumbledore was shaking his head.  “I wish I could put you to sleep, Ronald,” he said regretfully.  “It would be gentler.  However, I need you to be awake in order to untangle Gerard’s thoughts from your own.  I am simply asking if I may perform a relaxation spell to make it easier on us both.”

 

“The theory being,” Bill said, looking at Dumbledore as he put his arm back over Ron’s shoulder protectively, “that if Ron is relaxed enough, he’ll let down his guard and you’ll be able to get at Gerard’s rubbish without hurting Ron?”

 

Dumbledore sighed.  For a moment he looked as sad and tired as Harry had ever seen him.  “I’m afraid I can’t say it won’t hurt.  In fact I’m fairly certain it will.  However, it will be far less painful and with proper sedation, Ronald will not fight me the way he might if he were not sedated.  If he is in an altered state, he will be more apt to accept an intruder such as myself.”

 

“Is that how,” said Ron suddenly.  He was frowning.  “You say I have a guarded mind, Professor…but I was in an altered state when the brain attacked me.  I don’t remember much…but I’d been hexed.  Some sort of hex that made me act loony…I couldn’t walk straight and I was babbling utter nonsense.”

 

“A disorientation hex, Ronald,” said Dumbledore, looking at Ron over his spectacles.

 

“Would a disorientation hex have lowered my guard?” asked Ron.  “Is that how he got into my head?  Gerard Flint, I mean?”

 

“I think so, Ronald,” said Dumbledore nodding.  “I believe the hex left you open.  Flint’s thoughts and memories flowed in and tangled themselves with your thoughts.”

 

“Tangled,” said Bill sighing.  His hand tightened on Ron’s shoulder.  “I don’t fancy that word, Professor.  Untangling, well, it sounds a bit more complicated than extracting.”

 

“Yes,” said Dumbledore.  His brow furrowed as he steepled his fingers on the table again.  “Thoughts, feelings, memories, they all have expected ways of bumping up against each other, becoming tangled.  When I think of my dear old Aunt Prunella, for instance, I always have a mental image of a voluminous pair of lady’s knickers flying like a kite into the air.  For the life of me I don’t know why.  As far as I know I never saw my aunt’s undergarments.  I can’t think of Nicholas Flamel’s wife without the memory of a baby vomiting down my robes—though I do know why those thoughts are forever joined in my mind.  And when I think of Professor McGonagall, I seem to smell—”

 

“Sorry, sir,” Ron interrupted and Harry sighed in relief.  He didn’t want to know what McGonagall smelled like to Dumbledore either.  Ron’s knee was jiggling hard enough now to rattle Hedwig’s cage atop his dresser.  “If you don’t mind,” Ron said.  “Can we just get on with it?  Now, please?”

Harry felt the relaxation charm.  A warm, soothing wind whooshed over him and knots of tension let go one by one in his back.  He slumped against the wall, his head heavy as he watched Dumbledore point his wand at Ron’s chest and gaze intently again into Ron’s eyes.

 

_Waiting for the brick wall to tumble,_ Harry thought, resisting the urge to yawn.

 

Ron fell against his chair and seemed to slide down its ladder-back a few inches.  “Here we go,” he muttered.  His eyelids fluttered.

 

Dumbledore stared into Ron’s eyes and Harry blinked sluggishly, feeling unstrung and rather stoned.  _Blue eyes looking into blue eyes,_ he thought.  _Dumbledore’s eyes are blue but they aren’t watery like you’d expect an old man’s eyes to be.  Ron’s eyes are a different blue, slightly darker, softer, while Dumbledore’s are light and piercing._   Harry shook his head to clear it.  _Why did the charm hit me?_ he wondered _.  Is it_ casting a wide net, hitting everyone in the room?  He looked at Bill.  Bill had scooted his chair closer to Ron’s and he looked edgy.  His right trainer twisted against the floor nervously, _how Ronnish of him_ , Harry thought hazily.  _Bill’s not feeling it…I’m getting it through the connection then._

 

Harry saw Dumbledore glance from Ron to Bill.  “Don’t worry, William,” he said.  “Your brother is fine.”

 

“I’m fine,” echoed Ron.  His eyes were glazed and his voice croaky.  “In fact, I feel pretty good.  Yeah.”  He nodded his head and tipped to one side, his shoulder hitting Bill’s.

 

Bill slid his chair even closer to Ron’s and propped Ron back up.

 

“Ronald,” said Dumbledore.  He was looking deeply into Ron’s eyes again.  “Can you find which of Flint’s memories are the most troublesome to you?  We’ll start with those.”  

 

“Mum and Flint,” said Ron promptly.  “I hate those.”  He sank as far back as one could sink in a rigid ladder-back chair, leaning a little against Bill.

 

“Good,” said Dumbledore soothingly.  “I need you to push those thoughts to the front of your mind.”  As Dumbledore spoke, he reached into his robes.  He withdrew Fleur’s demi-Pensieve and laid it on the table.  When he opened it, a soft light filled Ron’s tiny room.  It was as though the pretty inlaid box was full of light, the same shimmery, swimmy light Harry always saw in Dumbledore’s Pensieve.  Dumbledore bent his head over the demi-Pensieve and its shifting glow lit his face from beneath, glinting off his silver glasses, his silvery eyebrows, bringing the deep lines in his face and pouches under his eyes into relief.  For a moment then Dumbledore looked so old Harry wondered how he could still be alive. 

 

“Here’s the thought,” Ron mumbled to himself.  He slumped against his chair staring into some middle distance.  His hands were open on his lap.  “Now where’s the front of my mind?”

 

“Look up, please, Ronald,” said Dumbledore.

 

Ron lifted his chin, his head wobbling a bit.  Harry’s own head felt ridiculously heavy.  He watched as Dumbledore raised his wand and, moving very slowly, touched its tip to Ron’s temple.  Ron flinched and Harry felt the ghost of a pinch at his own temple.  _This is weird_ , he thought.

 

“It is weird,” mumbled Ron.  

 

Dumbledore twirled the wand slowly against Ron’s temple.  When he pulled the wand away, a silvery string of thought stretched from Ron’s vivid hair to its tip.  At first, the thought slid out easily and fluidly, the way Dumbledore’s thoughts had every time Harry had watched him remove them.  But suddenly, Ron winced.  The silver thread stretched, growing thin.  Dumbledore lifted the tip of the wand, tugging lightly.  A dark knot appeared on the string a moment before it broke.

 

_That hurt him_ , thought Harry.

 

“Ow,” Ron said.  He put his hand to his temple as Dumbledore brought the silvery thought to the demi-Pensieve and dropped it in.  

 

Harry watched as Dumbledore’s wand returned to Ron’s temple again and again, extracting increasingly recalcitrant strings of thought.  The memory threads were growing thinner, there were more knots and the silvery color had darkened to lead.  Ron’s face was screwed up now and although Harry didn’t not feel any pain himself he sensed a redness in the connection.  It throbbed like a heartbeat against the shield for a moment, then faded.  

 

Another thought broke.

 

“Ow.”  Ron pulled his eyes away from Dumbledore’s and put his hands over his face.   “Sorry, Professor,” he said thickly from behind his hands.  “It just feels like you’re pulling barbed wire out of my head.  Can we take a bit of a break?”

 

“Certainly,” said Dumbledore, lowering his wand and looking at Ron sympathetically.  

 

Ron sat for a moment with his hands over his face.  Harry realized that his own sense of relaxation and heavy-headedness had vanished, that his body had tensed up and his hands were curled into balls.  Bill had moved so far to the edge of his chair he was in danger of tipping it.  He was no longer propping Ron up so much as clutching the back of his shirt.

 

“Professor,” Ron said, “those thoughts you just pulled out of my head…about my mum and Flint.  The things they were doing…”  He closed his eyes.

 

“Yes, Ronald?” said Dumbledore softly.  

 

“I’m glad to have them gone, they were hideous…but…” Ron seemed to falter for a moment.

 

_Were they real memories?_ thought Harry, closing his own eyes as his stomach gave a sickening roll.  _Ron wants Dumbledore to tell him the stuff between Molly and_ _Flint_ _never happened._

 

“Were they real?” Ron suddenly blurted out.  “Could they have been real?  My mum and Gerard…could it have been have been Flint’s sick fantasy?”  Ron’s face had gone pale and he looked vaguely ill.  Harry felt a small frisson in the shield.  _That’s Ron,_ he thought.  _His distress._ He watched with a churlish sense of jealousy as Bill’s hand moved in comforting circles on Ron’s back.  He felt displaced.  _That should be me,_ he thought bitterly.  _I should be at Ron’s side, I’m his bond-mate._   

 

“Unfortunately, son,” said Dumbledore, looking steadily at Ron over his glasses.  “I cannot answer that question.  When thoughts and memories are transplanted, it’s very hard to tell whether they are real or imaginary, fact or fantasy.  If these thoughts were still in Flint’s head, I have no doubt that I could immediately tell which events are real and which are imaginary.  In your mind, however, Flint’s thoughts are free-floating and attaching themselves like burrs to your own thoughts and memories.  I’m sorry, Ronald, I cannot answer your question.”

 

Ron sighed and scrubbed his eyes with his hands.  “That’s what I wanted most of all,” he whispered.  “Besides getting this sodding bastard out of my head…that’s what I wanted…to hear you say it wasn’t real.”

 

“I’m sorry, Ronald,” said Dumbledore softly.  “Truly I am.  But remember this, your parents are a bonded couple.  A claimed couple.  They share more than one magical connection.  Connections such as theirs spring from very deep love…love that must always be replenished, nurtured, renewed.  Deep love that must be cared for and kept pure.  Do you not know that the deepest loves, when corrupted, can become the deepest hates?  I know of no bonded couple, no claimed couple, and your parents are both, who could stay together if one party betrayed the trust.  I know of no bonded couple, no claimed couple who could stay together if either party even began to doubt, to mistrust.  The fact that your parents are still together and still devoted suggests to me that neither one doubts the other in the least.  And I don’t know how that could be if the things Gerard Flint put in your head were real.”

 

“But they look so real,” said Ron with anguish.  “Could Mum have been Imperiused?  Could she have been Oblivated?”  He looked up at Dumbledore, distraught.

 

“I’m sorry,” said Dumbledore once again.  “I wish I could answer your questions, Ronald, but I cannot.”

 

* * *

 

Harry had to check and make sure his feet weren’t sticking out of the Invisibility Cloak.  That there weren’t a pair of dirty white socks with twitching toes but no ankles or legs near the doorway of Ron’s room.  Dumbledore had blasted Ron with an even stronger relaxation spell and Harry’s head was spinning.  _I don’t half get these protection shields,_ he decided.  _Why do the relaxation spells affect me…while Ron’s distress just bounces off the shield?  Without the shield I’m sure he would have blown my head to bloody bits by now._

 

Ron’s chin was propped on both fists now.  His head wobbled from time to time and Harry thought his mate looked rickety, like at any moment he might go down in a heap of long arms and flying hair.  Bill had him by both shoulders and seemed to be holding him up.  

 

“Professor,” said Ron, slurring a little.  “This one abso…absolutely has to go.”  He sat up a little straighter and widened his eyes at Dumbledore in a way that would have been funny under different circumstances.  “Do you see the one I mean?”

 

Dumbledore nodded.  “I do,” he said, putting the wand against Ron’s temple and twirling it so slowly, Harry had the impression he was gathering up something large, viscous and unwieldy.  “I saw it the moment you let your guard down and I rather thought it would be the first memory to be extracted.”

 

Ron sighed.  “Bit of a toss up, it was,” he muttered, closing the eye nearest Dumbledore’s wand.  “Bloody awful, this one…been giving me nightmares for ages…but the stuff with mum…whoops.” Ron’s chin had slipped off his fists and only Bill’s quick hands saved him from pitching face first into the table.

 

“I understand,” said Dumbledore.  He twirled the wand again against Ron’s temple, then began to withdraw it slowly.  A slim silver string was attached to the wand’s tip.  Ron winced.  He screwed his eyes shut and sucked in his breath as the thought continued to string out and string out, growing darker and thicker as it came.  Then, to Harry’s horror, a great clot of something glopped out—it looked like a heavy knot of blood.

 

Ron made a small noise as the thought continued to unspool and another clot and then another slid heavily down the tread.  His fists were clenched on the table now and his face was white and twisted with pain.  Harry had risen to his feet before he even knew he was moving.  _I need to go to him,_ he thought, forgetting that he was invisible.

 

Suddenly the thought broke and fell away from Ron’s hair.  It swung from the wand as Dumbledore ferried it to the Pensieve.  It hung like a dark curling worm, then dropped from the wand.  The moment it touched the surface of the Pensieve, the shimmery light went dark.  For a moment darkness seemed to flood out of the box and shadows leapt up the walls.

 

“Bloody hell!” exclaimed Bill.  He had pulled Ron into his side, away from the rolling darkness.  His eyes were fixed on the demi-Pensieve.

 

“A very dark memory,” said Dumbledore.  “Very dark indeed.”  He prodded the surface of the demi-Pensieve, seeming to part the shadows with his wand.  Rays of light broke out of the darkness, shooting out into the room, lighting corners here and there.  Dumbledore prodded again, then stirred gently with his wand.  Slowly the darkness retreated until the little box was once again filled with shimmery light.

 

Harry felt something thud against the shield.  He looked up.  Ron had slumped against Bill with his hands over his face.  Bill held him as he gazed horrified into the demi-Pensieve.  “You are bloody having me on,” he finally said, looking sick.  “Do you mean to tell me the kid has been looking at _this_ all summer?”   

 

“I am afraid so,” said Dumbledore.  He spoke lightly as he looked into the demi-Pensieve yet Harry could hear the fury in his voice and see on the anger on his face.  

 

“Now we know, finally,” said Dumbledore, “what really happened to the Nott’s eldest child.”

 

“Cecil Nott,” whispered Ron.  He let his hands fall from his face though he continued to lean heavily back against Bill.  “Blimey, just a little boy.  A little boy having breakfast with his parents and their friend.  Notts didn’t want to take the Dark Mark, you know, didn’t think it was necessary.  Gerard, he put the potion in Cecil’s tea.  Funny, I could make that potion for you now, Professor, using mostly what Mum has in the cupboards and garden.  I could make it blind…I could make it with one hand and probably faster than Snape.  Colorless, odorless potion…the Notts had no idea.”  Ron shuddered.  “Gerard ate black pudding, had a cuppa while he watched…probably why I couldn’t eat much this summer.”

 

Dumbledore stood up and went to the window.  He looked out into the darkness as Bill pulled Ron into his arms and Ron buried his face in Bill’s shoulder.   “Shit, kid,” Bill was whispering into his brother’s hair.  “I am so sorry, honey…so sorry.”

 

Harry sank silently back to the floor, blinded by tears, with his nose running freely.  For the first time since he’d slipped under the Invisibility Cloak, he doubted himself.  _Ron would have told me when he was ready_ , he thought.  _I should have waited_.  There was a golf-ball sized lump in his throat and he wanted to scream and throttle something to death with his bare hands.  But he sat, letting tears and snot nearly choke him.  The room was so deadly quiet, he didn’t dare sniff or move.

 


	31. Chapter 31

The silence in the room stretched out for a long moment.  Harry sat motionless under the cloak until the tears on his face were half-dry and itchy.  He looked at Ron, who was so still in Bill’s arms Harry wondered if he were even conscious.  Harry used the neck of his shirt to scrub at his face.  _It’s not right_ , he thought.  _If Ron had let me go with him I know I could have helped him somehow.  I don’t know what I would have done…but it just makes sense.  There must be something a bond mate can do that no one else can.  If only Ron wasn’t so fucking stubborn and thick!_  Harry felt his face heating with frustration.  He rubbed it again with his shirt.  Suddenly a familiar scent, captured in the worn threads, hit him.  _Oh,_ he thought burying his face in the shirt.  _That’s Ron…Ron’s scent.  This is Ron’s shirt._ Harry pressed his cheek against the soft fabric.  _I will never wear anything of_ _Dudley_ _’s again._  He held the shirt to his mouth, letting Ron’s warm scent comfort him.  He could almost taste Ron’s skin.

 

After a moment, Harry looked up again.  Dumbledore was still at the window while Bill, at the table, had pulled Ron nearly into his lap.  He stroked the Ron’s back with one hand but his attention was not on Ron.  His eyes went over his brother’s shoulder to the demi-Pensieve which sat on the table, swirling with light and shadow.  Whatever he saw in the Pensieve sickened him.  His face was chalky, his expression horrified.  Harry shook his head.  _Whatever’s in there,_ he thought, _must be bloody gruesome_.  He was glad for the moment he couldn’t see it _.  I’ll need to know later,_ he thought, _but for now_ —he looked at Ron, at the familiar shape of his back and his long shoulders— _I don’t give a crap about anything but Ron.  He’ll need me when this is over._

 

“William,” Dumbledore called softly from the window.  “Please do not get too near to the Pensieve.”

 

“Sir?” said Bill.  His head jerked up as he tore his eyes away from the Pensieve.    

 

“Have you ever entered a Pensieve, William?  Have you ever entered a memory?” Dumbledore asked.  He continued to stand at the window with his hands clasped behind his back, pondering the black glass.  Harry wondered if he could see outside or if he were studying his own reflection in the soft light of the lamps.

 

“No, sir,” said Bill.  His eyes flicked between Dumbledore’s back and the Pensieve.  “I never have.”

 

“Ah.”  Dumbledore turned slightly.  “I don’t advise a tumble into this particular memory.  I would not wish it upon my worst enemy.  So please, William, have a care.  Do not lean too close.  Such a powerful memory will have a force of its own.  It could well draw you in against your will.”

 

“Good God,” muttered Bill.  He gave the Pensieve a look of revulsion, as he pulled away from it, twisting so his body was between Ron and the Pensieve.

 

“Ronald?” said Dumbledore.  He paused, waiting.   

 

“Oi, Ron.” Bill shook Ron lightly.  He patted Ron’s cheek.

 

Ron muttered something incomprehensible.  He turned his face away from Bill’s hand.  

 

“Professor Dumbledore’s talking to you.”

 

Ron shifted restlessly.  “Dumbledore?” His voice was muffled against Bill’s shoulder.    

 

_What’s wrong with him?_ Harry wondered uneasily.  _He was alert enough a moment ago…now he seems so out of it.  Like he doesn’t even know where he is._ He saw concern on Bill’s face too.

 

“If it’s any comfort, Ronald,” Dumbledore said, taking a step away from the window, “that particular memory may be of use to the Order.  It’s possible that Nott is a weak link in the Dark Lord’s inner circle.   I myself wonder how dedicated Nott could be to the man who ordered the murder of his young child.”

 

“Sure,” Harry heard Ron mumble.  “Comfort…murder.”

 

“Ron?”  Bill pushed Ron’s heavy fringe off his face.  “You okay, kiddo?  You awake?”  When Ron didn’t respond, Bill turned to Dumbledore.  “What’s wrong with him, sir?”

 

Harry looked anxiously at Dumbledore.  

 

Dumbledore was frowning, his silver brows knit above his blue eyes.  “I’ll need to look,” he said, approaching the table.  “Disorientation, certainly.  And naturally it is quite traumatic to have foreign thoughts pulled from one’s head, particularly when the thought is as violent as the one I just took from Ronald.  What I suspect, William, is that your brother has stopping resisting the relaxation spell…”

 

“Resisting?” said Bill, looking down at Ron’s slack face.  “He was resisting?”

 

_Resisting?_ thought Harry, remembering how stoned he had felt himself. 

 

“Oh yes,” said Dumbledore nodding.  “He did agree to the spell but at the last moment, he tried to block it.  I rather expected him to.  When one considers that Ronald already feels as if he’s had so much control taken from him, it’s hardly surprising he resisted.  Now, however, he seems to have completely surrendered to the spell…I expect he’s catching his breath and marshalling his strength.  When I look into his eyes again, I fully expect to see that brick wall.  No matter.  Let’s give him a moment to recover, shall we?  In the meantime, William…”  Dumbledore reached into his robes and pulled out an enormous slab of chocolate.  “Give him a bit of this.  And Willian,”—Dumbledore glanced at Bill’s pale face—“you have some as well.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

Harry watched as Bill shifted Ron’s head and offered him a bit of the chocolate.  He thought about what Dumbledore had said about Nott.  _A weak link?_ Somehow he didn’t think so. _I’ve seen Nott,_ he thought _, through my own eyes at the graveyard and through Voldemort’s eyes when I was sharing thoughts with the bastard.  I never saw anything to make me believe Nott would turn on Voldemort.  Maybe if it was a sniveling snotbag like Pettigrew…but Nott?  Nott seemed to be every bit Voldemort’s man as Lucius Malfoy._

 

Bill was talking to Ron.  “Come on, Ronnie, have a bit…it’ll make you feel better.”

 

“Whazzit?” Ron said.  Harry saw him shake his head in annoyance and push Bill’s hand away.  His forehead wrinkled irritably.  

 

“It’s chocolate,” said Bill.  He pressed a bit against Ron’s lips.

 

“S’hocolate?”  Ron frowned again, sounding as thought he’d never heard of it before.

 

“That’s right, kiddo,” Bill said soothingly as he slipped the chocolate into Ron’s mouth.  “It’ll make you feel better.”     

 

“You too, William,” said Dumbledore quietly.  He pointed his wand at the table and three cups of steaming tea immediately materialized.  Harry smelled them from under the Invisibility Cloak and wished for a cup himself.  He rubbed his face with Ron’s shirt again, breathing in the comforting scent.

 

“Professor Dumbledore,” said Bill.  He broke off another chunk of chocolate and fed it to Ron.  “I’ve seen people extract thoughts before, well Goblins.  At Gringotts, they do it when they want to pass along classified information—but I never seen anything like the stuff you just pulled out of Ron’s head.  All dark and”—Bill shuddered—“it looked bloody…like you were pulling out bloody strings of meat.”

 

“Drink some tea, William,” said Dumbledore.  He waited with a calm expression on his face.

 

Bill sighed and dutifully drank some tea.  He bit off an impressive chunk of chocolate, reminding Harry of the way Ron could stuff more than one chocolate frog in his mouth if need be.  Bill picked up the other teacup and held it under Ron’s nose.

 

“Mouff’s full of s’hocolate,” Ron said crossly.  He pushed at Bill’s wrist.  “And stop treating me like a baby, right?”  

 

Ron’s surly tone buoyed Harry.  _That sounds a bit more like Ron,_ he thought.  He watched as his mate shrugged off Bill and struggled to sit up on his own.  He moved as though his head hurt and as if he were considering heaving all over the table.  But finally, he managed to prop himself up on his elbows at the table, hands cupping his tea.  _He looks like shit,_ thought Harry, taking in Ron’s greenish tinge and his eyes, red and dazed.  _Utter crap._     

 

“Give him another moment, William,” suggested Dumbledore calmly.  He pulled out his chair and sat back down at the table.  “And to answer your question, no.  I have never seen a memory quite like the one I just extracted from Ronald.  I have extracted many thoughts and memories…from wizards, witches and elves, from friend and enemies, from the dying, from half-mad prisoners in Azkaban.  I have taken memories from desperate men and women who did not wish me to have them.  Yes, William,” he said, nodding at Bill’s startled look.  “I have forcibly extracted thoughts.  I do not think it ethical, but there have been times in this fight against the Dark Lord when I have valued information over my own sense of moral righteousness.  I have been willing, if you will, to break one man’s finger to save another man’s life.”  Dumbledore’s voice was as serene as ever, his face composed.

 

_Blimey,_ thought Harry.  _Dumbledore seems so noble and above it all._   _But look at him…he has no problem with the fact that he’ll sometimes have to dirty his hands._   Harry found the thought heartening.  _I’ll certainly have to get my hands dirty if I’m to kill Voldemort,_ he thought. _If it’s good enough for Dumbledore, I reckon it’s good enough for me._

 

“But the memory,” Dumbledore had continued on, “I just extracted from Ronald is quite unlike any other memory I have ever seen.  The darkness, yes, I have seen that.  Some memories are so dark, they take all the light from a Pensieve.  But the substance we saw that appeared to be blood?  That, I believe, came from Ronald.  It’s an indication, I suspect, of how much it cost him to carry Gerard Flint’s memories.”

 

“Well, I’m just glad to get shot of that one, you know?”   

 

Harry, whose eyes had been fixed on Dumbledore, jumped at the sound of Ron’s voice.  He turned to look at his mate.  Ron was sitting up at the table, gnawing on a fist-sized chunk of chocolate.  His back had straightened, his eye had cleared and he seemed much recovered.

 

“Ah, Ronald,” said Dumbledore.  

 

“M’serious, Professor,” Ron said, through his mouthful of chocolate, “I feel like you just yanked a, what do you call those things, Bill,” he asked, glancing back at his brother, “all iron, spiky and knights swing ’em round?”

 

“A mace?” Bill said, frowning slightly.

 

_A mace?_   Harry felt a slight frown crease his own forehead.  _Ron’s forgotten what a mace is?_ he thought.  _And there’s something strange about his voice.  What is it?_

 

“Oh yeah, a mace…I knew that,” said Ron.  He raised his cup and slurped at it.  “I feel like you just pulled a mace outta my head, Professor…right through my left eyeball.”  He stopped and pressed the back of his hand against his eye.

 

“I imagine your head hurts, Ronald?” said Dumbledore sympathetically.  He adjusted his half-moon spectacles to look at Ron.

 

“Yah, it hurts like all crap,” said Ron, scrubbing at his eye and shaking his head irritably.  “But what bothers me more is that it feels hollow…empty.  Hell, I’m not even sure it’s _my_ head anymore.”

 

“Ron.”  Bill looked aggravated.  “Watch your language, all right?  You’re talking to Professor Dumbledore.”

 

Ron scowled at Bill.  “So what?” he demanded.  “Just saying I’ve gone stupid, right?”  He turned back to Dumbledore, still scowling.  “I feel blank slately—like I’ve been erased, you know?”  He gave a harsh laugh.  “I reckon Professor McGonagall will chuck me in with the first years when we get back to school.”  He snorted and shrugged, turning back to his chocolate.  

 

_God, he sounds like Malfoy,_ thought Harry.  _All shirty and like he couldn’t give a rat’s arse._

 

Bill stared at Ron as if he’d grown another head.  “Sir,” he said, turning to Dumbledore.  “He’s acting rather… _is he all right?_ ”

 

Dumbledore nodded.  “Disoriented,” he said.  “And his tongue has been loosened, yes.  But I suspect there’s another reason for his rudeness.”  He sat down and folded his hands in his lap.  He didn’t look at all offended by Ron’s insolence.

 

_Another reason?_ thought Harry.  _What in the world could Dumbledore mean?_   Suddenly, it dawned on Harry that he could check the connection.  He searched for it and found it immediately.  Muted though it was by his protection shield, Harry could sense a rather violent shade of red.  _Oh, he’s angry_ , he thought, taken back.  _Really angry.  But why?_

 

“This emptiness you feel, Ronald,” Dumbledore was saying, “will pass.  It is a temporary side effect of the relaxation spells and the removal of a thought, thoughts, that were taking up a great deal of room in your mind.  Your mind is still much your own…nothing as been erased, as you say.  Please believe that I am an accomplished enough Legilimens to extract Gerard’s memories with minor, if any, damage to your own.”

 

Ron grunted.  “It’s not like I’d mind if you erased a few of Trelawney’s classes.  And you can have the whole of Potions.  And History of Magic while you’re at it.  Load of rubbish.”    

 

“Ron!” Bill frowned.  “Tone it down.  You’re way out of line.”  He turned to Dumbledore, “sorry, sir…he’s being—”

 

“Oh stow it, Bill!” said Ron, firing up suddenly.  “Don’t tell me what to do and don’t fucking apologize for me!  You don’t know what you’re talking about.”  Harry could feel the connection crackling.  An ominous blackness seemed to hang over the angry reds, making them seem more violent than ever.  _I don’t understand,_ he thought.  _There should be some colors of relief in there.  He’s just had the worst of_ _Flint_ _’s memories removed and for some reason, he’s furious…in a fucked up sort of way because of the relaxation spells…but definitely furious._

 

“Somebody has to apologize for you,” Bill retorted.  “Mum would go absolutely spare if she knew…Ron?”

 

Ron had dropped his block of chocolate and was pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes.  “Hurts,” he hissed.

 

Dumbedore had said nothing through the brothers’ exchange.  Now Harry saw him make a slight movement with his wand.  Ron went still, then let his hands drop from his eyes.  He glared at Dumbledore.  “I didn’t ask for that,” he said darker.

 

_Dumbledore did something to Ron,_ Harry thought.  _Something to ease the pain in his head.  But it only made Ron angrier._

 

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow slightly.  “Ronald,” he said quietly.  “This battle with Gerard Flint has become very much a battle with yourself.”

 

Ron shrugged and looked away from Dumbledore.  Picking up his chocolate again, he bit off a chunk with a sharp snap of this teeth.  

 

“This battle with yourself, Ronald,” Dumbledore continued, “is something we must discuss before we carry on with the extraction.  And I will need your full attention for that.”  Dumbledore paused, watching Ron chomp rather savagely on his chocolate.  “Can you give me that?”

 

Ron glanced at Dumbledore.  “I doubt it,” he said, indifferently.  “I’ve about this much”—he held his fingers a centimeter apart—“attention left.  And I need it for this.”  He held up the chocolate.

 

“Ron!” Bill burst out.

 

But Dumbledore held up his hand.  “I quite understand, Ronald,” he said.  “Nevertheless, your full attention is required.  With your permission, I’d like to try a modified enervation spell.”

 

Ron shrugged.  “Do whatever you like.  I feel like you already have.”

 

“Ron!” Bill cried.  “What are you talking about?  The professor’s trying to help you, idiot.  Thank God Mum’s not here,” he muttered to himself.

 

_Thank God Hermione’s not here,_ Harry thought.  He couldn’t quite believe how rude Ron was being himself.  _I was rude and angry in Dumbledore’s office,_ he thought _.  But I’m not sure I was as rude as Ron’s being right now.  And Sirius had just died.  What’s gotten Ron’s back up?_

 

“Ronald,” said Dumbledore calmly.  “Your anger is of course justified.  This extraction has been an enormous violation.  A necessary one, perhaps, but a violation all the same. Again I apologize.”

 

_Well, he’s right about that,_ Harry thought.  _The violation part._   How many times had he had Snape invade his mind?  Was there any time when he didn’t feel violated?  _No,_ he thought.  _Not one time.  It was a nightmare every time._

 

Ron shrugged again.  “Do any charm you want.  I honestly don’t care much.  But I guess,” he added, looking up to stare boldly and insolently at Dumbledore, “I’ll hate you in the morning, right?”

 

_“Ron!”_

 

Dumbledore held up his hand again.  Bill shook his head and looked away.  “I suspect you _will_ hate me,” said Dumbledore.  “But I hope you’ll give me the chance to work through it with you.”

 

“If you like.”  

 

“I do.”

 

Ron put his chocolate down on the table and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.  His eyes were still locked with Dumbledore’s.  “You do?”  He gave a harsh laugh.  “You say that, sir, but I don’t really expect you to bother.  I reckon you’d go out of your way, hell, you’d do back flips, wouldn’t you, if we were talking about Harry?  But me?  I can’t see you taking much notice of me.”  

 

Harry stared up at Ron, his mouth dropping open and his stomach filling up with ice.  _What the bloody hell?_ he thought, stunned.  

 

“Ron…oh, for…”  Bill looked mortified.  “Sorry, sir.  He’s being an utter—”

 

“He’s being truthful, William,” said Dumbledore.  “The relaxation spells have certainly affected his ability to, or perhaps his willingness to self-censor.  While he is being rude, he is also being truthful.  And he is right, as well.  I am as guilty as anyone else of overlooking Ronald, not seeing him in others’ shadows.  But I must confess, William,” Dumbledore said thoughtfully, “I truly did not realize.  I have always thought well of the Weasleys and Ronald is no exception.  I was pleased when Harry was adopted by your family and I have certainly been impressed with the steadfast friendships Ronald and Miss Granger have developed with Harry…but until this moment I never realized how remarkable Ronald is in his own right.”

 

“Bollocks,” said Ron.  He slurped at his tea, then gestured at Dumbledore with the cup.  “It’s not like I don’t want you to take an interest in Harry—I mean, he’s my mate, isn’t he?  I don’t mind standing in his shadow.  But some of the ways you take an interest in Harry, hell…” he broke off and glared darkly at Dumbledore.

 

“Ronald,” said Dumbledore placidly, “why don’t you go ahead and say what’s on your mind?  I believe you might feel better.”

“Fine!” Ron burst out.  “How could you do, _do that_ to Harry?  How could you put him through that?  And with bloody Snape of all people?”  He brandished the cup at Dumbledore like a weapon and tea slopped everywhere.  “Pretty bloody cruel, don’t you think?”

 

_What?_ thought Harry, utterly gobsmacked.  

 

“There we have it,” said Dumbledore as calm as ever.  “You are angry on Harry’s behalf as well as on your own.  Considering your relationship with Harry—”

 

“And don’t go poking your bloody nose into my relationship with Harry!” yelled Ron.  .

 

_Oh hell,_ thought Harry suddenly deciding it wasn’t so bad to be hidden away under the Invisibility Cloak.  _Well, Ron said it would get ugly…_ He noticed Bill was staring at the far wall, swearing under his breath.

 

“I shall certainly try not to nose into your personal affairs,” said Dumbledore blandly. “Now, if you don’t mind, I do think we have had quite enough.  Ronald!”  Suddenly Dumbledore’s voice was sharp and steely.  Ron glared at him, the teacup still extended, and Dumbledore lifted his wand.  

 

Harry felt the spell pass over him.  There was an icy swoosh and he felt as though his head had been plunged into a bucket of frigid water.  He jerked up, knocking his skull against the wall and biting back a cry of surprise.

 

For a moment Ron continued to stare at Dumbledore.  Then his mouth dropped open, a look of horror dawning on his face.  He sagged and the teacup slipped from his finger, cracking in two on the table.  “Bloody hell,” he whispered.  He slumped back into his chair and put his hands over his face.

 

“Oh, Ron,” said Bill, sighing.  He turned back toward his brother and put his hand on his shoulder.

 

“Oh crap,” said Ron through his fingers.  “I’m sor—”

 

“RONALD!”  Dumbledore’s voice rang out in the small room.  He did not stand up but it seemed to Harry as though he had.  He suddenly seemed to be towering over him, Ron and Bill while the little Pensieve lit his face from below with fierce and shifting shadows. “I AM QUITE SURE YOU HAVE GROWN COMFORTABLE IN HARRY’S SHADOW,” Dumbledore boomed.  “BUT YOUNG MAN, THAT IS NOT YOUR PLACE ANYMORE!”

 

“Y-y-yes, sir,” Ron squeaked, slipping lower in his chair.  He still had his hands over his eyes.  Harry could see through his face going pale through his fingers.

 

“The time has come for you to step out of Harry’s shadow,” Dumbledore went on, his voice so thunderous Harry wondered why the Weasleys, Hermione and the Order weren’t running up the stairs to see what the matter was.  “And in these dark days there may well come a time when you will have to step in front of him.  CAN YOU DO THAT?”

 

For a moment no one spoke.  Dumbledore’s words hung in the air; they echoed horribly Harry’s ears.  _Step in front of me?_ he thought suddenly chilled to the bone.

 

Then Bill broke the silence.  “DAMMIT!”  He slammed his fist on the little table and the swimmy light in the Pensieve swayed like smoke in the breeze.  “I knew it!” he spat furiously.  “I knew it when Dad wouldn’t tell me.  Bloody Order secrets!”

 

Dumbledore ignored Bill.  “Can you, Ronald?” he demanded.

 

Ron had stopped sliding down the back of his chair.  He was frozen, and staring into the middle distance with his eyes narrowed.  Suddenly Harry was aware of the connection again.  It was snapping and buzzing with fierce reds and purples, shot through with electric blues.  

 

“Yeah,” said Ron in a very quiet voice.  He pushed himself up in his chair and straightened his back.  “I mean, yes sir,” he said.  “I can.”

 

Bill swore heavily and leapt to his feet.  He took a step toward the door and for a moment Harry thought Bill meant to charge right over him and out of the room.  _He’ll be going after Arthur, of course,_ thought Harry, _and there will be an almighty row_.  But Harry didn’t care much about almighty rows or Order secrets at the moment.  His mind was reeling with Dumbledore’s words.  _Step in front of me?_ he thought, trying to put it all together.  _Dumbledore wants Ron to step in front of me?_

 

“I can if I have to,” said Ron firmly.  “And I will.”  He lifted his chin to meet Dumbledore’s eyes.

 

_The hell you will,_ thought Harry.  He made to throw off the cloak and rise, but to his shock he found he couldn’t move at all.  _What the fuck_ , he thought, unable to raise his arms, speak or even blink.  _It’s like someone’s petrified me._

 

“You cannot,” said Dumbledore sternly, his eyes locked with Ron’s.  “You cannot if you continue down the path you have set for yourself.”

 

_Path?  What is he on about?_   Harry struggled frantically against the spell binding him but it held him fast.  _What’s happened to me?_ he thought wildly as the adrenaline coursed him and his heart pumped madly.  _Did Dumbledore do something to me…or is this some sort of bond mate crap nobody thought to warn me about?_

 

“What do you mean?” Ron asked.  He had stiffened in his chair and though his face was still pale, there were now blazing patches of color on his cheeks.  The connection pulsed furiously with reds and hot whites.

 

“Your arm, please,” said Dumbledore.  His voice was hard, his eyes flinty.  

 

There was a short silence.  Then Ron said, “oh.”  A flash of light seemed to shoot through the connection.  It sparked and died.  Ron sank back into his chair.  The connection faded to dull gray.

 

Bill had been standing stock still less than a foot away from Harry.  His back had been turned to Dumbledore and Ron but he’d been listening to the conversation with his fists clenched.  Now he sighed heavily and returned to table.  He fell into his chair next to Ron, slinging an arm around his brother’s shoulders.  “The hell,” Harry heard him mutter.

 

“Your arm, please, Ronald,” Dumbledore repeated.  

 

Ron dropped his eyes.  “You don’t need to see my arm,” he said tonelessly.  Harry thought his mate sounded utterly defeated.  

 

“And why is that?” asked Dumbledore.  His voice had softened and his eyes seemed kind again. 

 

“Well,” said Ron wearily.  The splotches of color had faded from his face; it was now chalky.  “You’ve been in my head, haven’t you, sir?  You know what I’ve done.  I saw you looking.”

 

“Well, yes,” said Dumbledore sadly.  “It was a bit hard to miss.”  He sighed.  “You’ve been hurting yourself, Ronald.” 

 

Ron nodded.  “I know,” he said, softly, his eyes downcast.  “It helped.  A bit.”

 

“It did not help, Ronald,” said Dumbledore.  “As a matter of fact, it hurt.  It hurt quite a bit.”

 

Ron shrugged, then nodded.  He put his hand up to his temple as though his head hurt.

 

Harry struggled desperately against the binding spell.  _Dammit,_ he thought furiously.  _What the bollocks did Dumbledore do to me?_

 

“What possessed you to do this to yourself, Ronald?” asked Dumbledore gently.

 

“I…I needed to do something,” Ron said in a low voice.  He was staring at the table top.  “And it did help…when it hurt, Gerard backed off a bit.  Enough so I could handle it myself.”

 

“But there was no need to handle it yourself, Ronald,” said Dumbledore. “In fact by stubbornly handling this mess yourself you allowed it to go on much longer than it ever should have.  Dear boy, why did you not tell someone?  If you had told someone, the foreign thoughts would have been extracted immediately…and with much more ease.  Tell me, child, why did you not tell some one?”

 

“Well you already know, don’t you, sir?” Ron said wearily.  He did not look up. “You’ve been in my head…you know why I didn’t say anything.”  He shrugged weakly; suddenly he seemed too drained to go on.

 

“You were ashamed,” said Dumbledore.  “You felt like you had been taken over, overwhelmed.  You felt weak-willed, when nothing could be further from the truth.”

 

“And I didn’t want to tell anyone…about Mum, all right, sir?”  Ron whispered.  “You can understand that, can’t you?”

 

Dumbledore shook his head sadly.  “You should have thought better of your mother, dear boy.  I do not believe for a moment she did the things you saw and you should not have either.  How many times have you seen Dark Magic blind us all to the truth?  Did Ginny willingly open the Chamber?  Did Sirius Black betray the Potters?  Did Mad-Eye Moody turn his wand on Harry?  Ronald, please understand.  When things are not right, you are allowed to ask for help.  In fact you must ask for help.  You are not alone.”

 

Ron seemed to fold in half.  He slumped forward and put his head down on the table in the cradle of his arms.  

 

“Aw, Ron,” said Bill sorrowfully.  He rubbed Ron’s back gently.  “Aw, Ronnie.”

 

“Harry,” said Ron, his voice muffled by his arms.

 

Harry was still struggling against the binding spell.  At the sound of his name, he stopped, his heart thumping in his chest.

 

“What’s that?” said Bill.  “What did you say, Ron?”

 

“I said ‘Harry,’” said Ron.  He looked up at Dumbledore and Harry could tell his mate’s strength had nearly given out.  “We’re going to be here a while, aren’t we, sir?”   

 

Dumbledore nodded.  

 

“Thought so,” sighed Ron.  He closed his eyes, pressing one hand against his temple as if his head ached terribly.  “I just don’t think I can do any more of this without you, Harry,” he said softly.  

 

Harry felt his stomach go cold.  _I am still invisible, aren’t I?_ he thought.  His heart hammered wildly.

 

“Ron,” said Bill, rubbing his brother’s back, “do you want me to go get Harry?”

 

“No need,” said Ron.  He laid his head back down on his arms.  “He’s already here,” he said, his voice muffled.

 

Bill shook his head.  “He’s not here, Ron.”  He stood up.  “Give me a minute…I’ll go find him for you.”

 

“He’s here, Bill,” said Ron.  “Over by the door.  Under the sodding Invisibility Cloak.  Nosy parker.”

 

Harry could see Bill’s eyes moving all over the room as he tried to spot him.  

 

Dumbledore turned his head, looking right at the spot where Harry sat held fast.  “Looks like you’ve been found out, my boy,” he said looking pleased.  He sat back in his chair and folded his hands serenely in his lap.  “You might as well come out.”

 

The binding spell broke so suddenly Harry toppled over.  He landed on his side, his stiff legs finally unfolding and kicking free of the Invisibility Cloak.

 

“What the—”  Bill was staring open-mouthed and Harry knew he saw only a pair of disembodied legs and sock feet thrashing ridiculously on the floor.  He didn’t care.  He yanked the cloak off his head.  He was sweaty all over and could feel the static electricity raise his hair.  And he was angry.  Dumbledore had bound him to keep him from going to Ron.  How dare him?  He threw his professor a foul look as he got to his feet.  

 

“Hey, mate,” Ron called.  He propped his chin on his folded arms.  Harry could feel the weariness rolling off him.  “Mind helping me out here?  I’m dead knackered.”

 

Harry kicked the cloak away.  By the time he’d rounded the table, he found Dumbledore had already drawn him a chair next to Ron.  The table seemed to have shrunk a bit to make room for him.  In the center of the table, the demi-Pensieve sparkled, its contents pale, swirling benignly.  “How did you know I was here?” Harry asked Ron, slipping into the chair next to him.

 

“Dunno,” said Ron.  He shrugged and pushed himself up.  “Dunno.”

 

Harry nodded.  He reached out and Ron slipped into his arms, sighing gratefully as his head dropped to Harry’s shoulder and his arms went around Harry’s back.  Harry leant back against his chair, pulling Ron tightly to him and sliding one hand up the back of Ron’s shirt.  He didn’t know why but it seemed important to get to bare skin.  Ron’s back was hot, the skin fevered and sweaty.  When Harry slipped his other hand into Ron’s hair, he found it wet with sweat as well.

 

“Sorry about not letting you come in the first place,” Ron mumbled against his neck.  “Should have let you come when you asked.”

 

Harry rubbed his cheek against Ron’s hair.  “Well, yeah.” he said.  “Told ya.”  His anger at Dumbledore was slipping away.  He felt only relief now…relief that he was finally allowed to be where he was supposed to be, at Ron’s side, where he could help as only a bond mate could help.  

 

“Sorry,” sighed Ron.  “Should have known I would need your help.”  He took a deep breath and seemed to gather himself.  “So, ready?”

 

“Ready,” said Harry nodding.  He didn’t know what he was agreeing to but he didn’t care.  _Whatever it is,_ he thought confidently, _I can handle it._

 

Then he felt it.  Something heavy sliding on to his shoulders, a band tightening around his chest.  Pain stabbed at his left eye, while his whole head throbbed.  He was suddenly bone weary and his insides felt scooped hollow.  “Wow,” he said, laughing, even while his heart ached.  “How are you doing that?” he asked Ron.

 

“No idea,” said Ron, sighing in relief.  He lifted his head from Harry’s shoulder.  “No bloody clue.”  His voice sounded stronger.  

 

“How much have you given me?”

 

“Not sure,” said Ron.  About half, I think, maybe more.  You all right?”  

 

“I’m good.”

 

Both of their voices were low, the softest of whispers.  Someone else in the room gave a low cough and shifted quietly.  Harry didn’t know if was Bill or Dumbledore but he didn’t care.

 

“I’m good,” he said again.  He turned his mouth into Ron’s hair.  He loved the silky slide of it against his lips.  “You’re amazing, mate,” he said in the softest voice he could manage.  “Just bloody amazing.”  

 

Ron gave him a brief squeeze and started to pull away.  But Harry couldn’t let him go.  “Not yet,” he whispered, tightening his hold.  “Let me hold you just a little longer.  You made me wait long enough, you bloody arse.”

 

Ron gave a low laugh.  He let himself melt back against Harry, his strong arms tightening around Harry, holding Harry tightly.  Harry turned his head; he kissed Ron’s hair just to feel its sweet silkiness again.  “You’re amazing,” he said again, squeezing his eyes shut.  Ron’s heart beat against his, Harry could hear him breathe, could taste his hair, smell his warm skin and feel him real and substantial in his arms.  Harry laughed too.  He wondered if he’d ever in his life felt so weary and yet so whole.  So battered, yet so profoundly grateful.

 


	32. Chapter 32

Dumbledore was leaving.  Harry, weaving on his feet with what he supposed must be exhaustion, watched his headmaster tuck the demi-Pensieve, which with its lid closed looked again like nothing more than a pretty little jewelry box, into the folds of his robes.  The table and the chairs had already been banished and the bed and the bureau had seemed to exhale, returning to their normal shapes.  “Ronald,” said Dumbledore giving Ron a sharp look over the tops of his spectacles, “I’ll keep the Pensieve for you until you arrive at school.”

 

Ron grunted.  He didn’t bother to return Dumbledore’s look.  Sitting with a curved spine on his bed, he raised one hand and made a vague twirly motion.

 

_Being rude again,_ thought Harry, looking at his mate. _He’s still angry.  And dead knackered by the look of him…eyes half-closed._ He felt his own eyes drooping; his head ached.

 

“Harry?” Dumbledore cleared his throat.

 

“Sir?”  Harry looked up at Dumbledore and the room seemed to spin as he moved his head.  He wondered if Dumbledore had been trying to get his attention.

 

“I want Ronald to have the Pensieve, Harry,” said Dumbledore softly as though he knew Harry’s head hurt.  “He might not want it now but as long as these thoughts are in it, it belongs to no one but him.  And there are things in this box,” Dumbledore patted it through his robes, “that I do not believe he is finished with.”

 

“Right,” said Harry, blinking dully.  “I mean, sir…you’re right, sir…Ron won’t want the Pensieve.  I don’t suppose he’ll ever want to see it again.”  Harry wondered why Dumbledore was talking to him instead of Ron.  He glanced at his mate.  _Is it because Ron’s so fagged out?_ he wondered.  He sneaked a peek around Dumbledore at Ron.  Ron had collapsed forward.  He leant with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.  He gave no sign he cared or even knew that Dumbledore and Harry were talking about him.  Harry looked next at Bill.  Bill slumped against the wall looking pointedly away from Dumbledore.  He was clearly not going to say anything.  _Of course,_ Harry told himself dryly, _Bill hasn’t said anything beyond “fuck,” “shit,” “bugger,” “damn” and “hell” in the last two hours.  Well, then,_ Harry decided, _it has to be me because I’m Ron’s bondmate.  Dumbledore’s asking me to make sure he comes for the Pensieve.  But why?  What could possibly be in there that Ron’s not…not finished with?_ Harry sighed, his heart sinking.  He didn’t want Ron anywhere near Fleur’s Pensieve, especially considering what Dumbledore had said about memories being strong enough to pull one in.  _Of course Dumbledore will have his reasons,_ Harry thought rather sourly to himself, _though_ _it’d be nice if he’d fill us in sometime._  “He won’t want it, sir,” he said finally to Dumbledore, sighing again.  “But if you like, I’ll see that he comes for it…eventually…”

“Oh no, dear boy,” said Dumbledore, one eyebrow arching.  “You misunderstand me.  It is not up to you to see that Ronald comes for the Pensieve.  I think that he will come for it on his own…eventually, as you say.  My fear is, however, that he will come for it alone.  By that, I mean that he will not tell you or Miss Granger when he retrieves it…or when he confronts the memories.”

 

“But he’ll have to get the Pensieve from you—” Harry began.

 

“Yes, he will,” said Dumbledore nodding.  “And he’ll know full well that I will not think it my place to tell you myself,” said Dumbledore nodding.  “Harry, I do not think it wise for Ronald confront these memories on his own.  I would not think it wise of anyone, for that matter.  These memories are quite fraught, Harry—complicated, tangled, violent and, for Ronald of course, very personal.”  Dumbledore paused, frowning.  “Do you understand me, Harry?  It could be quite dangerous for Ronald to face these memories on his own.”

 

Harry felt a curl of fear in his stomach—followed immediately by a hot jolt of anger.  “I thought we’d be shot of that bloody git once the extraction was over,” he burst out furiously.  “What’s in there that Ron still needs to confront?  When does this horrid mess end?  Why can’t we leave it and get on with it?”  Harry’s voice had risen to a shout but neither Ron nor Bill had moved.  Bill at least seemed alert; his body was tense and Harry knew he was listening.

 

“Ah,” said Dumbledore, his voice as calm as Harry’s was wild.  “There are some things, dear boy, that simply do not end.  They may diminish, yes…but, and you know this better than anyone, Harry, they leave scars.  Ronald’s scars…the ones on the outside…the scars he gave himself….they are just mirrors of the scars within.  Just as your scar, Harry, is a mirror of the harm that was done you.  You have never been afraid to confront it and for that you have my utmost admiration…but, think, Harry, have you not always had your friends at your back?  How different do you think things would be today if you had not had Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger at your side?”

 

“I’d be dead,” said Harry flatly.  “Without Ron and Hermione, Voldemort would have snuffed me by now.  Without them…I would have just given up.”

 

“I do not think so, Harry,” said Dumbledore.  “I do not think you have it in you to give up.”

 

Harry didn’t want to hear it.  At the moment, he was too tired, too sick of Flint, extractions, Death Eaters, Dark Lords and scars in general to care.  All he wanted to do was to crawl into bed, wrap himself around Ron and sleep forever.  “I’ll watch him, sir,” he said wearily to Dumbledore.  “I won’t let him go it alone.”  _I won’t let him go anything alone,_ he added to himself.  _Not this…nor anything else._

 

“Good,” said Dumbledore approvingly.  “Now then, I think it is time I should be going.”  Yet Dumbledore did not move.  He gazed at Harry with an intensity Harry knew would have made him feel uncomfortable if he’d the energy to give a rat’s arse.  But he didn’t.  He let Dumbledore have his look, glancing around him at Ron.  Ron’s head was still in his hands, his fingers buried in his hair.  _His head must ache dreadfully_ **,** thought Harry, wincing.

 

“Harry,” Dumbledore suddenly said.

 

“Sir?” said Harry, looking reluctantly away from Ron.  

 

“Take care.”  Dumbledore said quietly, his voice concerned.  “Take rest and comfort where you can.”

 

“I will, sir,” said Harry.  As he looked up into his headmaster’s face and saw again how lined and weary it was, Harry felt a sudden wash of shame.  _We were right foul,_ he thought, _Ron and I._   _Granted it was nasty business, but we didn’t have to take it out on Dumbledore, did we?  He was only helping._   Harry felt his cheeks burn as a thought occurred to him.  The extraction, it was probably awful for Dumbledore too.  Not only thoroughly unpleasant, but probably exhausting as well.  “Erm, thanks, sir,” he said abashed.  “And, er, sorry.”

 

“Not at all,” said Dumbledore.  He bowed, seeming to understand.  He continued to look at Harry a moment longer.  “Take care,” he said again.

 

Harry nodded.

 

Dumbledore sighed and finally looked away.  “Your father did go prematurely gray,” he said, “but not nearly so dramatically as you.”

 

“Oh,” said Harry.  He reached up and tugged on the white lock in his fringe.  “This.  I…erm…”  He let his voice die.  Talking was just too much effort. 

 

“Goodbye for now, Harry,” said Dumbledore.  “Rest, dear boy…get some rest.”  He turned toward the door, then stopped.  “Ah, one more thing, Harry.  I’ll have a word with Miss Granger before I go…about that most extraordinary memory.

 

“What?”  Harry blinked, puzzled.  “Oh right.  Oh no.”  He had completely forgotten about it—the particularly ugly thought, dark and clotty with a thick hump in the center.  Dumbledore had been extracting it when Ron had suddenly cried out and Harry had felt a tremendous stab of pain in his own head.  He’d cried out too, closing his eyes against the pain.  When he’d opened them, he’d seen Dumbledore returning the wand to Ron’s temple.  He’d watched in horror as the ugly memory broke and sagged heavily, brushing Ron’s cheek, making him recoil.  It had bunched and curled, lifting one end into the air, nosing like a blind thing before slithering backwards into Ron’s bright hair.  Ron had shuddered, squeezing his eyes shut; Bill had sworn, turning away.

 

“What was that?” Harry had cried, revolted.  He had thrown a protective arm across Ron’s chest and felt Ron’s heart banging wildly against his forearm.  “Why did you put it back?”

 

Dumbledore had shaken his head.  “Too tangled,” he’d said frowning.  “It had buried itself deeply into Ronald’s own memories.  It had the most curious burr-like quality…most curious.”

 

Harry scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, shuddering at the memory.  _How could I have forgotten that horrid thing?_ he wondered.  _And when will this be over?_   

 

Dumbledore gazed at him with sympathetic eyes.  “Get some rest, Harry,” he said.

 

After Dumbledore had gone, Bill kicked the bedroom door shut.  “Thank God,” he sighed.  “Thank God that’s over.”  He leant against the wall for a moment looking at the floor and chewing his lip.  He seemed to be thinking something over.  After a long moment, he pushed away from the wall and came to kneel in front of Ron.  “Hey, kiddo,” he said, patting Ron’s foot.

 

“Ow,” said Ron weakly.  He lifted his head from his hands and shoved back his hair.  His brow was sweaty and he looked stunned and empty.  _A bit like Lockhart,_ Harry thought, _when the memory charm backfired—only a lot less cheerful._

 

Bill snorted.  “Ow?  It hurts when I pat your foot?”  He began to untie Ron’s shoelaces.

 

“Yeah…no…I dunno,” muttered Ron.  He closed his eyes and leant his cheek on one hand.  “Hard to tell. It all hurts.”

 

“Yeah?” said Bill, gently working off Ron’s right trainer.  “Well, it’s over, okay?  It can only get better now.”  He peeled off Ron’s worn, faintly gray sock and held his brother’s bare foot in both hands, massaging the instep lightly.  “You used to like to have your feet rubbed when you were little,” he said lightly, glancing up.  “Still feel good?”  

 

Ron grunted.  He didn’t bother to open his eyes.

 

“Hard to tell, huh?” said Bill.  He pulled off Ron’s other shoe and sock.  “Well, look, kid,” he said, “just go to sleep, right?  I’ll tell everyone to leave you alone…to stay downstairs.  I won’t let Mum up here, I swear.”

 

“Brilliant,” muttered Ron with his eyes still closed.  “Thanks for that.”

 

Bill rubbed Ron’s other foot for a moment and Harry stood behind him and watched, oddly fascinated.  In Bill’s large, ruddy hands hands, Ron’s foot was pale, nearly blue—just as it had been when Harry had sat on the Weasley’s long kitchen table where Charlie had placed him, clutching Ron’s foot and convinced it was the only thing anchoring him to the earth.  _That was only two nights ago_ , Harry thought to himself, _but it seems like ages._   __

 

“Ron?”  Harry looked up to see Bill pressing something into Ron’s hand.  “Take this, honey,” he said.  “If you need me, I’ll come right away.”

 

Ron blinked, staring stupidly at the Egyptian coin in the palm of his hand.  He didn’t seem to understand.

 

“Is it a Protean charm, then?” Harry asked.  He was growing wearier by the minute.  _If I don’t sit soon,_ he thought, _my knees are going to buckle._

 

“Yeah,” said Bill, looking up at Harry.  Harry’s stomach dipped.  Bill’s face was drawn, gray with strain.  There were dark circles under his eyes and he looked older than his twenty-seven years.  _Where did our Bill go?_ Harry wondered fuzzily.   _The bloke who was so cool?  The bloke who nonchalantly wrapped his bloody arm in a bed sheet at the World Cup and talked about being buried to the neck in rubble in the catacombs as though it were a minor inconvenience?_

 

“Ron,” Bill had turned back to his brother.  “Do you know how a Protean works?  Do you know how to send me a message?”

 

“Um.” Ron’s eyes were locked on the coin but Harry didn’t think he was seeing it.  “Protean?  Erm, Hermione always…”  Ron’s voice trailed off.

 

“I can do it,” Harry said.  He was giving out.  He stumbled over to the bed and sank down next to Ron.  Ron promptly leant against him, letting Harry take some of his weight.  

 

“Good,” said Bill, looking up at Harry.  “Then you’ll do it then?  If either of you need me…if anything weird happens?”  His browed was furrowed.  “You promise to call me?”

 

Harry nodded.  

 

Bill turned back to Ron.  “Listen, Ron…hey, Ron?”  Ron had let the hand with the coin drop to his lap.  His head was bowed and he had shifted even more of his weight against Harry.  “Ronnie,” Bill took Ron by the wrist.  “I know you’re tired, honey, but listen to me for a mo’, ‘k?  Ron?”

 

Ron turned his face into Harry’s neck.  He sighed, wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist.  

 

“Just another moment, Ron,” said Bill urgently, taking Ron by the shoulders and trying to turn him.  Ron only clutched tighter at Harry so Bill settled for rubbing his back.  “You know I’d stay with you, right, Ron?” he asked.  “I’d stay…but I can’t.  There’s…there’s something I have to do.  But if you need me, use the Protean.  I’ll be here in a tick.  I promise…”

 

“Bill…”  Ron blew out a breath of air that was hot and comforting on Harry’s neck.  Harry patted his mate’s thigh.  He couldn’t believe how much better he felt suddenly—just from being in contact with Ron.  I wonder, he thought, could it be more of this burden sharing stuff?  Did I just give him some of my weariness?

 

With great effort, Ron sat up straight.  He turned back to Bill, keeping one arm around Harry’s back, his hand cupping Harry’s hip.  “Bill,” he said to his brother, who still knelt in front of him.  “Don’t worry so much.”  He put his other hand on Bill’s shoulder, then leant forward to let his forehead touch Bill’s.  “I’ll be fine, right?  Harry’s here.” 

 

_Harry’s here_ —why that brought Bill comfort Harry didn’t known.  He knew he looked like hell, pale, wobbly and on the verge of vomiting.  He was fairly certain he couldn’t take care of a Flobberworm.  

 

Yet Bill seemed relieved.  “That’s right,” he said.  “Harry’s here.”  He cupped the back of Ron’s head with one large hand, holding their foreheads together a moment more.  Then he leaned back and lifted Ron’s chin.  “I love you, kid,” he said.

 

“I love you, too, Bill,” Ron said, meeting Bill’s eyes.  “You’re a good brother.”

 

“Yeah,” said Bill, sighing.  “I’m a good brother.”  He cleared some of the sweaty hair away from Ron’s face and tilted his head to kiss Ron’s forehead.  “Now go to sleep,” he added.  

 

Harry sat next to Ron, listening to Bill stomping down the stairs _.  I can’t believe he thinks I can take care of Ron,_ he thought, his stomach cold with anxiety.  _What if something happens?_ he thought.  _Will I be able to help?  Can I even feel Ron through this stupid protection shield?_

 

“Harry.”  Ron turned back to Harry and leant against him again, laying his chin on Harry’s shoulder.  

 

“What?”

 

“Stop it.”

 

“Stop what?”

 

“Worrying.”

 

“What makes you think I’m worrying?”

 

“Dunno.”  Ron nuzzling in closer to Harry, wrapping his arms around him and pressing their chests together.  “Just feels like my brain itches or something.”  His breath tickled Harry’s ear.

 

“Oh,” said Harry mildly surprised.  He’d felt all kinds of agitated snaps and buzzes and scratches from the moment he’d connected with Ron, but as far as he knew Ron had never received anything from him.

 

“You can, you know.”

 

“Huh?  I can what?”

 

“Handle whatever happens.”

 

Harry felt his stomach flip.  He turned in Ron’s arms and tried to look him in the eye.  Ron took the opportunity, however, to tilt them both sideways so they flopped over on the bed.  _Ow,_ thought Harry as Ron’s sharp elbow sank into his ribs.  He pulled strands of Ron’s hair out of his mouth.  “Ron,” he said wonderingly, “do you know what I’m thinking?”

 

“Nah,” said Ron.  He was squirming, burrowing into Harry’s side, throwing one leg over Harry’s thighs.  His other leg and both of Harry’s hung over the side of the bed.  “You’re wrong, anyway, mate,” Ron mumble, his voice growing faint.  “If anything happens, you’ll take care of it.  You always do, don’t you?”  His lips brushed Harry’s cheek.  “’Sides,” he said softly, “don’t want any one but you near me right now.”

 

“All right,” said Harry, giving in.  He was too tired to argue.  “At least budge over, will you?  And get on the bed proper.”

 

Ron pulled his other leg up on the bed.  He heaved himself up, then fell heavily with his head on the pillow.  His arm groped for Harry.

 

“Budge over,” said Harry crossly.  He crawled up next to Ron, his arms and legs as heavy as lead.  

 

Ron grunted and slipped his hand under Harry’s shirt.  He spread his big hand out over Harry’s ribs.  But he didn’t budge.  His breathing slowed and deepened; he was falling asleep.  He’d left Harry such little room on the bed that for a moment Harry considered clambering over him to get to the other side.  But Ron’s hand on his ribs held him in place; the weight of it on his bare skin was too comforting.  He couldn’t bear to give it up.  He took off his glasses and pitched them in the direction of the nightstand, not really caring where they landed.  “Stupid git,” he said, nuzzling Ron’s hair.  “You could have budged, you know.  My arse is hanging over the side.”  

 

He shifted in even closer then, putting his own hand up Ron’s shirt and over his heart while Ron’s hand slipped round to his back.  Harry had to cling tightly to keep from falling off the bed.  He didn’t care.  Clinging to Ron was exactly what he wanted to do.  His eyelids fluttered shut.  Ron’s body was warm and smelt wonderfully of a mix of his skin and Harry’s.  Harry felt the bed pitch and yaw, like a boat.  He held Ron close, spinning slowly down into a warm and sweet deep darkness.

 

* * *

 

Cold skin woke him, a clammy embrace.  He couldn’t breathe, he was underwater; slick and chill limbs wound around him, wet hair filled his mouth and eyes.   _The Siren!_ he thought wildly.  He flailed, clawing his arms, kicking furiously up.   

 

“Harry!”

 

His head broke the surface of the water and he woke up.  He was sitting up-right in Ron’s bed.  He could make out Ron’s blurry shape beside him.  Ron was kneeling on the bed, bracing himself on his arms.

 

“Harry, wake up,” Ron moaned.

 

“I’m awake,” said Harry, instantly so.  He reached for Ron.  His mate’s arms with slick with cold sweat and he was shaking.  “What is it?” Harry asked, alarmed.

 

“Her,” Ron panted.  “It was her--the Siren…she had that cold slimy tongue down my throat.  Fuck!”  Ron shook his head and sweat flew from his hair.

 

“It was a dream!” said Harry, grasping Ron’s forearms tighter.  “Just a dream.  I dreamt it too.”

 

“She was pulling me down,” Ron went on, as if he hadn’t heard..  “And there was this horrid stabbing in my head, like finger poking, ripping things out by the roots.”

 

“No, Ron!” cried Harry, shaking his mate gently.  “It was just a dream.”

 

Ron’s head fell, the damp tendrils of hair clung to his forehead.  “Harry,” he said raggedly.  “It’s horrid.”  He put his hand to his breastbone like there was a pain there.  “Make it stop.  Just make it go away.”

 

Harry pulled Ron roughly into his arms.  He kissed him hard on the mouth; Ron opened his mouth breathing hard.  “Yes,” he groaned.  “On top of me, Harry.”

 

Harry spilled Ron over on his back.  He knew it had to be tender and it had to be rough at the same time.  It had to be enough—enough to make the other go away.  He fell on top of Ron, grabbing his head and kissing him hard.

 

Ron struggled.  He struggled to get more of Harry.  He pushed his body up and pressed Harry’s down, throwing his legs over Harry’s and pinning them.  He writhed, crying out and making such noise that Harry rammed his tongue deep into his mouth to quiet him.  “It’s all right, mate,” he said, breaking the kiss.

 

“No,” cried Ron hoarsely.  He flung his arms wide on the bed.  “Touch me, Harry, I can’t stand it.”

 

Harry’s cock jumped.  Ron’s arms were spread, his hair was wild on the tangled sheets.  His mouth was wet and open, his eyes wide.  Harry thought he looked obscenely beautiful.  He fell on Ron, taking his mouth, pressing in with his tongue and rubbing their groins together hard.

 

Ron wouldn’t shut up.  He moaned and cried out into Harry’s mouth.  The noises and the heat of his mouth made Harry wild.  He grabbed a fistful of Ron’s hair with one hand; with the other, he snatched at Ron’s shirt, yanking it up so he could touch hot skin.

 

“Yeah,” Ron grunted into his mouth.  “Like that.  But more.”

 

Harry found Ron’s right nipple.  He squeezed it between his thumb and forefinger, feeling Ron jump beneath him.  He pinched and kissed and bore down with his pelvis.  And Ron struggled like a wild thing, bucking and arching, moaning into Harry’s mouth.  Then he pulled tight; his back arched and he went rigid, shuddering hard before he fell back on the bed.

 

After that, Harry took his time.  He was tender, he was slow.  He undressed Ron carefully, kissing the scars and the marks and the freckles, rolling Ron’s nipples in his fingers.  Ron no longer struggled.  He sighed; his body rippled under Harry’s.  His kisses were gentle.  His cries were the softest of moans.

 

Harry wanted to make love forever.  He stripped off, matching his naked skin with Ron’s, rocking them both gently.  “Hush,” he whispered between kisses.  “You’re mine, now.”

 

Finally, they lay in a sweaty heap, on their sides and facing each other, arms and legs entwined.  Their cocks were soft and spent, still they kissed, stroking each other’s hair, each other’s backs and buttocks.

 

“Can you sleep now?” Harry whispered, licking at Ron’s full lower lip.

 

“Yeah,” Ron whispered back.  “You?”

 

“I’m dead,” admitted Harry.  “Let’s get under the covers.”

 

“Nuh uh,” Ron sighed, yawning.  “Too knackered.”

 

“The sweat will dry and we’ll be cold,” protested Harry.

 

“Don’t care.”

 

Harry already felt a chill but he knew there was no way he was going to get Ron under the covers.  He reached for his wand and pointed it toward the door.  “ _Accio_ , cloak,” he said.

 

Harry saw the cloak gleam and ripple in the air as it flew toward them.  He spread it over Ron and himself, snickering because while he could no longer see his lover, he could feel him everywhere, hot, wet, tender and so precious in his arms.


	33. Chapter 33

  
Author's notes: Yahoo Group address for anyone who wants to join:  <http://groups.yahoo.com/group/matildabishopsproxyseries/>

WARNING:  SLASH.  Also, this is a serial, updated frequently (ha, ha)...just a friendly heads-up for people who prefer to read finished pieces.  


* * *

Harry was in a good place. He was pleasantly warm and there was a body entwined with his, the body of the person he knew he would always love the most. And he was neither fully awake nor fully asleep but somewhere delightfully in between. He skimmed over the top of sleep, flying smooth air and watching rich relaxed colors roll in waves. He monitored lazily. There were disturbances—a lot of shouting and doors banging, the loud crack of an angry Apparition. But that was all happening in some place that didn’t concern him. He heard Ron snort in his sleep, felt him wriggle closer. He chuckled, kissed his friend’s hair and floated on.  
  
* * *  
  
The next thing he heard was an incessant ringing, an alarm clock, he supposed. He opened his eyes and sat up. Ron ’s room swam into blurry focus. The room was dark but there was a wedge of soft light coming in from under the door, enough for Harry to see the room was empty save for him and Ron , who stirred restlessly beside him. He scrubbed his eyes and looked to the side expecting to see Ron . What he saw instead was a disembodied mop of hair on the bed next to him. It was as if someone had thrown a wig at him and it had flopped beside him, draping slightly over his bare shoulder. It took him a moment to remember that he and Ron were under the Invisibility Cloak, utterly naked. Harry laughed. He flopped back down on the bed and curled around Ron .  
  
The ringing went on.  
  
“ Harry ?” There was a polite knock on the door. Harry sat up with a start. Dim light flooded the room. There was a shadow by the door, the dark blotch of someone’s face. “Oh, erm…sorry,” said a man’s voice.  
  
“ Professor Lupin ?” Harry squeaked, surprised. He snatched at the Invisibility Cloak, glancing left and right to make sure he and Ron were both still covered. He was visible from the chest up while Ron , apart from his hair, was nowhere to be seen. Harry could feel Ron shifting about under the Cloak, however, his hand groping.  
  
“Yes…well…perhaps later,” said Lupin’s voice. Harry heard the door closing.  
  
“Sir! Oh…I, um…wait?” said Harry , flustered. While he really wanted to go back to sleep nested with Ron , Hermione’s admonishing words floated about in his head—Harry, I think Remus needs you more than Ron right now. Harry sighed. I really should see him, he thought. But where? He hardly wanted to bring Lupin into the room in which he’d just made love to Ron; however, he thought it a bad idea to leave Ron . I want to be here if he has another nightmare, he thought. Perhaps if I met Lupin on the landing? A second later he’d changed his mind. No, he thought, the last time I left Ron asleep he nearly knocked down the bathroom door. If I leave him now, he’s likely to burst onto the landing starkers and tackle me in front of Lupin. Best to have Lupin come in here. He sighed again. “Just give me a moment, sir,” he called through the door.  
  
“Um, right,” Lupin answered. Harry could hear the embarrassment in his former teacher’s voice.  
  
Feeling a bit put out, Harry eased away from Ron and sat on the edge of the bed. He looked down at himself. Even in the dim light and without his glasses, he could see the marks Ron had left on his chest during the rough moments of their love-making. Harry also felt dried semen on his belly, crusted in his pubic hair. He had no idea of where his glasses or clothes might be, and even less idea of how much time had passed since the extraction. He glanced at the window; it was still dark though he thought he could see a lightening toward the east.  
  
The shrill ringing went on. Harry wished for it to stop as he did not want it to wake Ron . The moment he wished for it to stop, it did.  
  
Fumbling about on the floor, he found his glasses and a shirt, which once he put on he realized it was the shirt Ron had been wearing all night for it smelt even more of Ron than the shirt Harry had worn. He pulled on a pair of jeans, kicked the other shirt, jeans and two pairs of pants under the bed. Then he turned, pulled the Invisibility Cloak the rest of the way over Ron ’s head and tucked away all the stray red hair. It’s hardly ideal, Harry sighed. But I suppose it will do.  
  
“Professor?” he called.  
  
There was a mutter from the empty space on the bed next to him. The mattress shifted and Ron ’s large square hand appeared quite suddenly on top of the duvet, groping. “I’m here,” said Harry , pressing his fingers to the back of disembodied hand. “Stay asleep.”  
  
“ S’matter ?” Ron ’s voice was thick and groggy. “Where’re we goin’?” His hand turned over, catching at Harry ’s fingers.  
  
“Nothing’s the matter,” said Harry , taking Ron ’s hand in both of his. “And we’re not going anywhere. “Lupin’s coming in here and I’m going to talk to him. You’re going to stay under the cloak and sleep, right?”  
  
“’’ Kay , all right, yeah,” Ron agreed sleepily. Harry heard him yawn. He held Ron ’s hand, feeling it relax as Ron sank back into sleep. When Ron ’s breathing was deep and even again, Harry spread his mate’s hand out on top of his own, palm to palm. He liked the way his mate’s large hand covered his and the way the long fingers extended past his own by a knuckle, even with Ron ’s hand relaxed in sleep. What a paw, thought Harry . Nearly the size of Hagrid’s, he added to himself, even though he knew Hagrid’s massive hands would make Ron ’s look positively dainty. Harry turned Ron ’s hand over, fascinated. Usually, he thought, there’s so much of Ron to look at—his eyes, those amazing lips, his shoulders, his arse and legs—I don’t pay that much attention to his hands. But look at this wonderful hand. Look at the elegant fingers…look at the scars. Harry traced one thin white line near Ron ’s thumb, and another at the base of his index finger. Bite marks, thought Harry . One from Norbert and one from that fuck Peter Pettigrew . And these, he touched the faint, scritch-scratch lines here and there on Ron’s fingers, are from me. I told Hedwig to bite Ron until he wrote me a proper letter. Harry felt himself smile. He didn’t feel guilty at all—rather he liked finding a bit of himself on Ron ’s skin. And he liked the fact that he could read his lover’s hand and know the history of its lines. It made him feel even closer to Ron . And though Lupin was waiting, Harry lingered over Ron ’s hand. He couldn’t help himself. In fact he was very sorry his better side had won out and he’d invited Lupin in in the first place. He wanted to be alone with Ron , to sleep with him until the exhaustion had passed, til they were both whole and well and laughing again. He held Ron ’s warm palm to his cheek, feeling wrung-out, yet exultant; he was bone-tired and sore, but strong enough to protect what he loved most. At last, he kissed the pulse point in Ron ’s wrist and lifted the Invisibility Cloak. He laid Ron ’s hand on his chest, pressing both their hands over Ron ’s heart.  
  
There was a polite cough on the other side of the door. “ Harry ?” Lupin’s voice was tentative. “I can come back.”  
  
“No,” said Harry quickly. “It’s all right. Lumos.” He lit his wand and rested it on the bedside table. Then he patted hopelessly at his hair and glanced once more at Ron to make sure he was still covered and invisible. Settling back against the headboard, he scooted over until he felt his hip press against Ron ’s shoulder and his legs line up with Ron ’s side. He hoped the warmth of his body through the Cloak would be enough to keep his mate happily asleep.  
  
The door opened and Lupin’s sheepish face appeared at the door. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Really, Harry , we can do this later.”  
  
“No, no, come in,” said Harry .  
  
Lupin lingered at the door, leaning on the jamb, and Harry gestured to him. “What was that ringing I heard?” he asked.  
  
“Oh,” said Lupin. “ Bill set an alarm jinx. He said he didn’t want anyone bothering you but Hermione was quite insistent that I see you before I left.”  
  
“She was right, as usual,” said Harry . “Come on in.” He was feeling a bit more generous now that he saw Lupin. Lupin was after all his father and his godfather’s best friend, and, really, quite an important person in his own life. Lupin finally pushed himself away from the wall and entered the room. Harry pressed more firmly against Ron . He hoped Lupin wouldn’t sit on the bed. He might sit on Ron .  
  
But Lupin drew a chair with his wand, then plucked it from the air and, turning it around backwards, straddled it. He crossed his arms on the back of the chair and rested his chin on his arms. In the wand light, he looked dreadful, possibly worse than Harry had ever seen him look before.  
  
“Professor…” Harry said, unable to keep the dismay out of his voice.  
  
“I know,” said Lupin wincing. “I know.” He touched his face, his fingers going to the old deep scars. “I believe I once said to you, ‘I have looked worse.’” He gave a dry laugh. “I don’t believe I can say that now. I may have hit a personal nadir.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” said Harry . “It hasn’t exactly been roses, has it?” As he searched Lupin’s face, he saw Lupin searching his in return. Lupin’s eyes widened slightly as he took in the white patch in Harry ’s hair. “Yeah,” said Harry , pulling self-consciously at the lock. “I don’t know exactly when it happened. I didn’t look in the mirror for weeks and when I did, well, it was there.”  
  
“Ah,” said Lupin. He studied Harry ’s white lock a little longer. “It’s good actually,” he finally said. “I’d say it suits you. Dashing. Now, Harry , I um...” Lupin sighed. “There’s something I need to tell you…”  
  
“I know,” said Harry , guessing. “You burned down Sirius’s house. I heard. Well done, I say.”  
  
Lupin grimaced. “More to the point, Harry , I burned down your house.”  
  
“My house?” said Harry , his eyebrows going up. “I don’t have a house.” A sudden image of the little cupboard under the Dursleys’ stairs ablaze with flames popped into his head.  
  
“You did have a house,” said Lupin. “Sirius left you his. He left you everything…I didn’t know at the time. I was horrified when I learned…well, I should never have done it on any account.”  
  
“Sirius left me Grimmauld Place ?” said Harry , shocked. He thought of the shrieking, drooling portrait of Mrs. Black , of all the malevolent trinkets tucked here and there, displayed on mantels and in glass cases. He was appalled. “Sirius must have been mad,” he said. “Why would he leave me a place he absolutely detested?”  
  
“Well,” said Lupin, his brow furrowing. “He might not have wanted the house to go to Bellatrix and Narcissa if he were to…if anything were to happen to him.” Lupin closed his eyes for a moment and Harry felt a stab of pain in his own heart. Lupin went on. “But what I really think he had in mind was, well...he made you his heir, Harry . It was his way of claiming you, saying the two of you were a family. That’s what he wanted, you know. He intended, when all was laid to rest and he was free to do as he pleased, that you should live with him, as a son…of sorts.”  
  
“Son?” Harry tried to say it lightly but he felt like he was choking. “More like a mate, I’d say.” Tears burned his eyes. Thoughts of Sirius and what might have been were almost too much to bear.  
  
“ Harry ,” Lupin started, but another voice cut across his.  
  
“ Harry ?”  
  
Ron ’s voice floated up from the blank space on the bed. It sounded thick and sleepy, yet alarmed. The mattress dipped suddenly and Harry realized Ron was sitting up.  
  
“Hang on, mate,” said Harry hastily. He grabbed at the empty air and felt Ron ’s shoulder and chest. He pushed him firmly back down on the bed. “Relax, right?” he said in his most reassuring voice. “It’s nothing. I’m all right. I’m here. Go back to sleep.”  
  
“But…you…I felt—” Ron ’s voice was worried.  
  
“I’m all right,” Harry insisted. “Go back to sleep.”  
  
There was a pause. Harry could feel Ron resisting. Lay down, you git, he wanted to say. We’re got company and you’re dead naked. Instead he smoothed the Invisibility Cloak over Ron ’s head, making sure it didn’t slip. The petting motion seemed to soothe Ron . He relaxed back down on the bed. “Right,” he muttered. Harry heard him sigh and the mattress jostle as he changed positions.  
  
When Harry was reasonably sure Ron had gone back to sleep, he turned again to Lupin. “Urm, sorry,” he said, hoping Lupin couldn’t see his blush in the wand light.  
  
“No matter,” said Lupin. His voice was suddenly much lighter and his mouth quirked. “All right, I admit it did give me a turn when I first opened the door. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen black hair and red hair sticking out from under that cloak. Thought I was back in the dorms, seventh year, for a moment.”  
  
“What?” Harry felt his eyebrows go up. “My parents?”  
  
“Absolutely,” said Lupin laughing now. “You didn’t think you and Ron invented it, did you?”  
  
It took a moment for Harry to figure out what Lupin was saying. When he did, he felt heat suffuse his face and neck. “Oh,” he said, slumping back against the headboard. “Oh crap.” He scrubbed his face with one hand and sighed. He put the other hand protectively on Ron ’s invisible shoulder. “Does everyone know then?” he asked in a small voice.  
  
“I don’t know that everyone knows,” said Lupin lightly. “Let’s just say it was obvious to me when I opened the door.” He wrinkled his nose.  
  
“Crap,” Harry said again. He noticed he was squeezing Ron ’s shoulder and forced himself to relax grip.  
  
“Nothing to be embarrassed about,” said Lupin, grinning.  
  
“I’m not embarrassed,” said Harry indignantly. “I’m just…well…it felt nice when it was private…when only Ron and I knew.”  
  
“Oh, it’s still private,” said Lupin, nodding. “That’s one of the lovely things about intimate relationships. They have their public faces, sure…but there’s always a side that belongs only to the lov—erm, the people who share the relationship. A strong healthy relationship, it creates a private world…a safe place, a bit of a haven…don’t you think?”  
  
“Yeah,” said Harry . He sat thinking for a moment. The image of black hair and red hair under the Cloak bobbed about in his mind. His parents—he had always thought of his mother and father as, well, his mother and father. Save for the horrible moments when he feared his father had somehow forced his mother into marriage, he’d never thought of them as a couple, as two young people in love and he supposed, as Lupin said, sharing a haven. “Professor…”  
  
“Please, Harry ,” said Lupin. “Remus.”  
  
“Right, Remus,” Harry amended a tad impatiently. “Were my parents a bonded couple?”  
  
“Oh no,” Lupin said, sounding surprised. “Have you been told much about bonding, Harry ? Do you know how extremely rare it is?”  
  
“Oh, I’d had a bit of a crash course,” said Harry , rolling his eyes. “There’s loads to learn, isn’t there? There are bonds and there are connections and they’re not the same but they’re related and you can have the bond without the connection but you can’t have the connection without the bond. Sometimes the connection is strong, sometime it’s weak, and someone who knows what they’re doing can strengthen your bond or cut it without your say-so. Sometimes the whole thing feels wonderful and sometimes it gives you an absolutely splitting headache. There’s frozen motorcycle helmets for the headaches but I hear those are just for beginners. There also seem to be a lot of colors but I think that might be just me. Ron was able to share physical pain with me but I have no idea how he did it. Hermione says magical bonds are as rare as hens’ teeth but I really don’t see how. Look at this house— Molly and Arthur , bonded couple. Fred and George too perhaps. So,” he finished, looking up at Lupin, “I wouldn’t want to sit my N.E.W.T.s just yet, but yeah, I know a bit about bonds.”  
  
Lupin chuckled. “You’ve obviously swotted up on bonds but you’ve a bit to learn about hens’ teeth,” he said. “You have heard of the white-tufted peregrine fanged hen?  
  
“What?” said Harry .  
  
“Never mind,” said Lupin. He cleared his throat. “Yes, bonds. Molly and Arthur , they are a bonded couple and that’s the thing, Harry . Bonding runs in families, the way twins or triplets do. Though I’d say bonding is more on the order of having quadruplets, or even quintuplets. Ron may well be pre-disposed to bonding—”  
  
“Remus.” Harry interrupted. He was afraid Lupin might suggest that Ron could have bonded with someone else, someone other than himself. If that was so, Harry didn’t want to hear it. Besides there were other things he wanted to know. “My mother and father,” he asked, “were they a claimed couple?”  
  
“Like Molly and Arthur ?” asked Lupin and Harry nodded. “No, Harry ,” Lupin shook his head. “Claiming is very old-fashioned. As a practice, it died out nearly a hundred years ago.”  
  
“But Molly and Arthur —”  
  
“Again, it’s the kind of thing that runs in families. Some families keep it going as a matter of tradition but it is quite rare. I believe there are a fair number of claimed couples in both the Weasley and Prewett families.”  
  
Harry felt a little let down. “So the Potters never claimed their partners?”  
  
“Well,” said Lupin, frowning. “The Potters were an old pureblood family, one of the oldest—the distaff line—the Purvells—stretched back even further than the Blacks. There were undoubtedly claimed couples, perhaps even bonded couples in the line. But Lily , she would have been dead against claiming.”  
  
“Why?” asked Harry . Dead against claiming? Harry felt his stomach flip. If Lily were still alive—what would she think of his bond with Ron ? Is this what it feels like, he wondered, when your mother disapproves of you?  
  
“ Lily believed firmly in choice when it came to matters of the heart,” said Lupin. “She never would have consented to a magical bond that would have restricted choice in any way.”  
  
“Choice?” said Harry , a bit sharply. “This is a choice? What I have with Ron ? It isn’t a choice—it just is.” He felt prickly—and a bit like he was arguing with his mother instead of Lupin.  
  
“It is most definitely a choice,” said Lupin, gravely. “Love is a lot of things. But it is always a choice, a choice one might make on a daily basis if necessary. It may seem very easy to you and Ron right now but one who loves, one who is fortunate enough to have a long-lived love, puts a great deal of work into it. I know what Molly and Arthur seem like, two halves of the whole. And they are. But that whole doesn’t stay whole without a great deal of nurture. And it doesn’t blossom overnight.”  
  
“It did with us,” said Harry , annoyed now. He didn’t like Lupin behaving as if he knew more about his bond with Ron than Harry knew himself.  
  
“Did it really?” said Lupin. “Think about it, Harry .” He gestured at the empty space on the bed beyond Harry . “Haven’t you put a great deal into your relationship with Ron ?”  
  
“Not really,” said Harry defiantly. “We’ve always been mates. Best mates, ever since we were eleven. We’ve shared everything and never thought anything about it.”  
  
“Exactly,” said Lupin, nodding.  
  
“If that’s all it takes,” said Harry , firing up now. “How come I didn’t fall in love with Hermione?”  
  
“Choice,” said Lupin. He gave Harry a mischievous grin.  
  
Harry blew out an irritated breath. Lupin was reducing his feelings for Ron to things as mundane as choices and work. This wasn’t choice, it was something much stronger than choice. If he had chosen to love Ron , then didn’t that mean he could also choose not to love Ron ? Ridiculous, thought Harry , hearing Lupin’s words again: Did you think you and Ron had invented it?  
  
Well, yes.  
  
Lupin was resting his chin on the back of the chair watching Harry . He was half smiling and also, Harry noticed again, looking tired and ill. “I do need to get back, Harry ,” he finally said. “I just…well I wanted to see you, and I wanted to tell you about the house. Perhaps we’ll talk sometime when you haven’t as much on your plate, right?”  
  
“Wait, Professor…Remus.” Harry sat up as Lupin started to rise. “One more thing. Did my mother”—and suddenly the question was desperately important—“did she ever sing Greensleeves to me?”  
  
“Greensleeves?” Lupin looked puzzled.  
  
“Yeah,” said Harry . “When I was a baby…and fretful.” When Lupin continued to look blank, Harry hummed a few off-key bars of the song and mimed the motions Mrs. Weasley had made with her wand when she sung it to him.  
  
“Oh,” said Lupin suddenly cottoning on. “Are you talking about healing songs? Is Greensleeves a healing song?”  
  
“Yes,” said Harry eagerly. “I learnt about them from Molly . Did my mother sing me it?”  
  
“Actually,” said Lupin thoughtfully. “Greensleeves is probably the Weasley’s healing song—actually, the Prewetts’, if Molly sang it, that is. Wizarding families tend to hand down healing songs from mother to daughter.”  
  
“Oh,” said Harry disappointed. “Then my mother didn’t have a healing song.”  
  
“Well,” said Lupin. “The Potters would have had a healing song and I’m sure James and Lily would have learnt it if Mr. and Mrs. Potter had not died unexpectedly.”  
  
“Oh,” said Harry again. “Then the Potter’s healing song, it died out?”  
  
“Probably,” said Lupin.  
  
“Well,” said Harry more to himself than to Lupin. “ Ron knows Greensleeves…I suppose we could stick to that.”  
  
“Or make your own,” said Lupin. “That’s what Lily was doing.”  
  
“She was making her own?” Harry ’s head jerked up and his stomach did a funny little roll. “So she did sing to me!”  
  
Lupin nodded. “Oh, yes. She had not mastered her song…but she would have.”  
  
Harry ’s heart squeezed and soared at the same time. He’d always had something of his father’s—the Invisibility Cloak. But he’d had nothing that had belonged to his mother, unless Aunt Petunia counted and Harry wanted her even less than he wanted Sirius’s house. But if Lily had been making a healing song for him—  
  
“What was the song?” he asked eagerly.  
  
“Let It Be,” said Lupin. “A Muggle group, the Beatles . She said it was her favorite song.”  
  
“Sing it to me,” said Harry urgently.  
  
“Oh, Harry.” Lupin looked sad. “I could sing it to you but you wouldn’t feel anything. It was Lily ’s song, not mine. She was the one building the magic into it.”  
  
“Sing it to me any way,” Harry insisted.  
  
Lupin did. Harry leant back against the headboard, his hand under the Invisibility Cloak touching the warm skin of Ron ’s belly, listening to a pretty little tune he’d heard many times before.  
  
Lupin was wrong.  
  
Harry did feel something.  
  
* * *  
  
The moment Lupin left, Hermione stamped in. “Good God,” she said, stopping dead in the doorway. “Can we please open a window? This room stinks of spunk.”  
  
“What?” cried Harry , horrified. “Hermione!”  
  
“Well, what did you expect?” asked Hermione, waving her hand in front of her nose as she stalked over to the window. “You’ve been up here shagging, haven’t you?”  
  
“Hermione!” Harry was sputtering now.  
  
“Well, haven’t you?” Hermione said. She pointed her wand at the window and the window swung open. “That’s much better,” she said, sticking her whole head out of the window. “Semen has a very distinct odor,” she went on. “Rather like heavy pollen in the springtime. Mix that with the odor of sweat, and well…”  
  
“Hermione,” groaned Harry . “Shut up.” He put his head into his hands.  
  
“Well, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” said Hermione, matter-of-factly. “It’s just a courtesy to open the window when people are going to be tramping in and out the room.”  
  
“I’m not embarrassed,” said Harry for the second time in half hour’s time, though he was, mortally. “And I hardly expected people to be tramping in and out of the room. Bill said he would keep people out—”  
  
“Oh, Bill ,” said Hermione, pulling her head back into the room. “Well, he’s gone off in a bit of a huff, hasn’t he? Didn’t you hear the shouting?”  
  
“No…well, yes,” said Harry , suddenly remembering he’d heard shouting and the crack of an Apparition in his sleep. “What was that all about?”  
  
“ Bill came down stairs after Dumbledore and lit right into Arthur ,” Hermione said. She was trying to keep her voice causal but Harry knew her well enough to hear an undertone of excitement. “It was an absolutely furious row, Harry ,” she said. “ Molly and Arthur shoved Bill out of doors. He was shouting to high heavens about Order Secrets. Unfortunately I caught hardly anything because Arthur cast some sort of muffling charm. Anyway Bill cracked off with such a loud Apparition, the windows actually rattled. I went out just to make sure he hadn’t left any more body parts lying about... Harry ,” Hermione paused, looking around. “Where’s Ron ?”  
  
“What? Oh, he’s here.” Harry lifted the Invisibility Cloak up to show Hermione the top of Ron ’s head, his hair spread on the pillow.  
  
“Why on earth is he under the Invisibility Cloak?”  
  
“Urm,” said Harry . “Well, I didn’t want him to get cold—”  
  
He was saved from further explanation by Hermione’s sudden inhalation. “Oh Harry, come here,” she said breathlessly. “You really must see this.”  
  
“See what?”  
  
“Just come here,” said Hermione impatiently.  
  
Harry looked doubtfully at Ron . He lowered the Cloak and saw his mate was dead asleep. But that could change at any moment, especially if Harry left him. He wondered if he could use a sticking charm to keep the Cloak around Ron . He knew Ron would kill him if he let him pop out of bed naked in front of Hermione.  
  
“ Harry !”  
  
“All right, all right.” Harry gave Ron a stay-there pat and rose from the bed to join Hermione at the window. “What in the world?” he said, puzzled.  
  
At first he couldn’t understand what he was seeing. It looked like a huge dark mass hovering in sky, a fat squarish blob that seemed to quiver at the edges. “What is it?” he asked wonderingly.  
  
“It’s the pond,” breathed Hermione excitedly. “Dumbledore’s just levitated it, lifted the whole thing up. Look.” She pointed.  
  
Harry saw a dark hole in the earth where the pond usually was. Beside it, he saw the small figures of Dumbledore, Molly , Arthur and Charlie . The sun was now rising; a ray of light hit the floating pond, turning its outer edges a murky translucent green. “Levitating the pond?” asked Harry . “Whatever for?”  
  
Suddenly the pond blurped. It shot a geyser into the air, then shuddered and broke into pieces. As Harry watched the pieces flowed together like mercury forming dark green globes that hung above the tree line, gleaming in the dawn light. There were more than a dozen of them and they seemed to shudder and slosh as they began to rotate slowly around an unseen axis. “What’s going on?” Harry demanded, nudging Hermione.  
  
“ Molly asked Dumbledore to search the pond for the Siren,” said Hermione, her eyes glued to the globes as they spun slowly in the air. “I imagined he summoned her and she didn’t come. So now, apparently, he’s taken the water out of the pond and is searching it bit by bit.  
  
Harry watched fascinated. He could see Dumbledore sweeping his wand; he saw Molly , Arthur and Charlie leaning forward, looking intently into the globes of water. Then Molly , Arthur , Charlie and Dumbledore raised their wands. The globes shuddered and things began to float out of them. Harry saw the bent frame of an old bicycle, several old tires, shoes of all different sizes. He saw a doll and tin cans, a lump that looked like a broken axe and another that looked like an automobile fender. Then his seeker’s eyes saw something else, something tiny and glittering. His heart jumped.  
  
“Where are Ron ’s Omnioculars?” he shouted, spinning on the spot so suddenly he bumped Hermione and knocked her head against the window frame. “Sorry,” he said, skidding over the Ron ’s bureau and yanking the drawers open one by one. He threw things over his shoulder—shirts, pants, socks, jeans, chocolate wrappers, a comic book and an old bottle of Rat Tonic. Finally, in the back of the last drawer he found them. He sped back to the window and lifted the Omnioculars to his eyes.  
  
“What is it?” demanded Hermione.  
  
Harry ignored her. He searched with the Omnioculars until he found what he was looking for. “There,” he cried, focusing in on the glittering object in the sky.  
  
“What is it, Harry ?” asked Hermione breathlessly.  
  
The shining little object was now speeding through the air. Harry followed it with the Omnioculars and watched it zoom into Dumbledore’s open hand.  
  
“ Harry !” Hermione shouted. She smacked him between the shoulder blades.  
  
Harry took the Omnioculars away from his face and looked stunned at Hermione. “I think it’s the rest of the mirror,” he said. “ Gerard Flint ’s mirror. You remember I took a piece of it from Ron ’s mouth?”  
  
Hermione nodded, her eyes wide.  
  
“Well, I think Dumbledore just summoned the rest of it.”


	34. Chapter 34

  
Author's notes: Yahoo Group address for anyone who wants to join: <http://groups.yahoo.com/group/matildabishopsproxyseries/>

WARNING: SLASH. Also, this is a serial, updated frequently (ha, ha)...just a friendly heads-up for people who prefer to read finished pieces.  


* * *

**“Piss bugger fuck…”**

Ron swore, his head under the duvet.

“Reckon you’re gonna heave?” Harry asked mildly.

“’Fraid so.”

Harry rose from where he’d been sitting on the camp bed. “I never knew there was so much vomit in one person,” he said half-admiringly.

Ron laughed, then coughed and gagged. He groaned rather pitifully.

Smirking to himself, Harry knelt beside the bed. The little bedroom was dark but that did not mean much. Hermione had cast a very effective Avertus Lumos over the windowpane. The only light came from under the door and from the dim glow of one lamp. Harry had no idea of what time it was, whether it was day or night. He did know, however, exactly what to do for Ron. “Hey, mate,” he said in a low voice, leaning with his forearms on the mattress but taking care not to jostle it. “How ’bout don’t? Throw up, I mean. I’d like to see you keep the soup down.”

“Yeah, well,” Ron’s voice came from under the duvet, muffled, aggrieved. “Don’t know if I can help you there. It’s not like I like to puke.”

“You sure about that?” asked Harry, his voice light and teasing. “Thought it might be growing on you.” He hummed to himself as he got comfortable beside the bed. He’d never thought he’d be one for dark rooms and vomiting mates but he was finding it surprisingly easy to be at Ron’s bedside. In his best moments, Ron was amusing. He cracked jokes, talked Quidditch and poked fun at himself. But even when he was morose, stroppy or queasy, he wasn’t so bad. He was Ron, after all, who had been Harry’s favorite companion for years…and he was Ron, who Harry had so recently discovered was lovely to kiss and touch. And he was Ron, Harry’s bond mate. There’s nowhere else I’d want to be, thought Harry. I’m supposed to be here. And getting spewed on beats having to hide under the Invisibility Cloak.

“Sounds like a migraine,” Hermione had announced when Harry had described Ron’s symptoms.

“Feels like Dumbledore’s still shoving his wand through my eye,” Ron had muttered. He’d been lying on his side with his eyes closed. He’d been in one of his quasi-queasy moments but had felt well enough as long as he didn’t try to move.

Hermione had merely glanced at him before going on. “My mother gets them sometimes. She has the exact same symptoms, throbbing pain on one side, nausea, as well as visual hallucinations—”

“S’not hallucinations,” Ron had objected, offended. “’M not mental, you know…just have spots in my eyes.” 

“That’s what I said,” Hermione had said. “Streaky lights and bright flashes…as well as pins and needles in your arms. You can’t tolerate light or touch and you’re overly sensitive to sound—”

“If I’m overly sensitive to sound,” Ron had grumbled, “why’re you still talking?”

Hermione had exhaled sharply. “On the other hand, Mum’s headaches don’t seem to make her any ruder than usu—” 

Ron had interrupted Hermione again, this time with an absolutely volcanic spew. Leaping to spell up the sick, Harry had suspected that if Ron had known he merely had to vomit to shut Hermione up their first five years together would have been a lot messier.

At the moment, though, he was keen that Ron not vomit. “Let’s keep that soup down,” he said. “It’s the first decent meal you’ve had since the extraction.

“Glad you liked it,” Ron moaned. “’Cos you’re about to see it again.” He shoved the duvet aside. His hair was sweat-damp.

“Nah, I don’t think so,” Harry said calmly. “Roll to your left side.” He shifted on his knees, making himself more comfortable beside the bed. A little tune looped in his head, making him think of figure eights. When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me. “Go on,” he urged Ron. “Roll to your side.” 

“Yeah, all right.” Ron sounded as if he were rolling his eyes. Though Harry knew he wasn’t. Right now, rolling his eyes would definitely make Ron throw up.

Ron rolled to face the wall. “That’s it,” Harry whispered. “Now just relax.” He leant on his forearms, his hand inches from Ron’s back. “Relax and breathe slowly through your nose, right? Good. Now, go back to sleep, willya? I’ll be right here.” 

“Yeah…all right.” Ron’s voice in the dark room was low but Harry thought he sounded peaceful. The tightness, the hint of desperation that had been in his voice all week was gone. It’s helped him heaps to have Gerard extracted, thought Harry. Even if it did make him sick.

He continued to kneel beside the bed, after a while realizing he was humming softly. Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom. 

His hands were open and reaching on the bed. He hated not being able to touch Ron. 

Let it be.

* * *

Ron was down for three days with headaches and nausea. He wanted no one in the room with him except Harry. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Ginny, Fleur, and Charlie had all checked in and had either been waved off, sworn at or vomited upon depending on Ron’s mood at the time. Fleur had trigged a particularly nasty episode of vomiting, pleasing Hermione enormously. Hermione was the only one beside Harry Ron could tolerate, which was good because it turned out she had a lot to tell them.

“You know, Harry,” she said excitedly as she sat cross-legged by the door, “when Dumbledore takes you in his office at end of term and explains everything that we were going mad trying to figure out on our own? Well, he had one of those talks with me!” She beamed, her short cap of ringlets shining in the soft light. She’d lit two candles earlier, and enchanted them to hover above their heads. The flickering light sent odd swaying shadows around the room.

Harry, sitting on the camp bed where he’d been sleeping ever since Ron developed migraines, grinned at Hermione. Bad luck, he thought, not for the first time, she’s not the one with the scar on her head. She might have enjoyed it more than me. “Well, go on,” he said to her. “What about the Siren?”

Ron snorted. He wasn’t particularly ill at the moment but he was rather cross. He lay on the bed, scowling up at the ceiling with the orange duvet bunched about his hips. He had his arms spread as if airing himself out and Harry suspected he felt rather grotty. He felt grotty himself. 

“She’s gone,” said Hermione.

“Gone!” Harry’s head jerked up in surprise. His voice was sharper than he’d intended and Ron flinched. “Sorry, mate.” Harry shot Ron an apologetic look before turning back to Hermione. “Where in the name of Merlin could she have gone?”

“Who knows?” said Hermione. “Back to the ocean, probably. Levamentumus.” She pointed her wand at a damp flannel on the bedside table. It leapt up and zipped over to Ron, swooping down to daub at his forehead. Ron made a half-hearted noise of protest, batted at the flannel. Harry watched enviously as the cloth swept the fringe from Ron’s forehead—that was a job he would have liked himself. Ron made another annoyed noise but when the flannel folded itself up and dropped neatly over his eyes, he sighed in relief. 

Harry turned to Hermione. “How would the Siren get to back to the ocean?” he asked. “Apparate?”

Hermione gave him an exasperated look. “Harry, Sirens don’t Apparate. You’d know that if you ever bothered to read A History of Magic. Their magic is limited to singing.”

“And looking pretty fucking scary,” Ron mumbled, eyes hidden by the flannel. 

“How did she get out of the pond, then?” asked Harry, a bit irritated by Hermione’s tone. “Fly?”

“No,” said Hermione. “She swam.” 

“But there’s no—”

“I know,” interrupted Hermione. “The pond has no outlet. That’s what everyone assumed. But when Dumbledore levitated the pond, the Siren wasn’t in the bed…where the professor and everyone else expected to find her. And she wasn’t in any of the spheres of water we saw them searching from the window either. So Charlie went down into the bed to have a look around. Apparently your mum, Ron,” she turned to look at Ron on the bed, “was having kittens the whole time, afraid the pond would crash down on his head.”

“Why?” Ron asked faintly. “Charlie can swim.” 

Hermione stared at Ron as though she were wondering if Dumbledore had accidentally extracted his brains instead of Gerard’s memories. “He can’t after he’s had a couple of tonnes of water dumped on his head, can he?” she asked. When Ron merely grunted, she turned back to Harry. “Anyway, Harry, Charlie went down into the pond bed and found some sort of subterranean cavern…a passageway. It makes sense when you think about it…an underground stream. If the pond is a quarry, then something had to fill it up, right?” She looked expectantly at Harry.

“Absolutely,” said Harry firmly. He had no idea really but he didn’t want Hermione suggesting he’d know all about quarries if he’d only read A History of Mining. “So did she leave by the underground passageway?” he asked.

“Professor Dumbledore thinks so,” said Hermione. “And that set Molly off too…if it got out, it can get back in…I’m not having it in my pond, Arthur,” she said, sounding scarily like Mrs. Weasley. “Dumbledore promised her he’d have a friend—one of the Hogwarts Merfolk—come inspect the pond. And he promised to stop up the cavern…your mum, Ron, said she didn’t care if the pond did dry up.”

“Lovely.” Ron muttered. “We’ll have a big hole in the ground.” 

“Dumbledore’s friends with a Hogwarts merman?” asked Harry surprised. He could hardly imagine the fierce looking creatures in the black lake being friendly with anyone.

“Apparently,” said Hermione. “He told me the merman’s name and his voice went all screechy…like a shovel scraping over concrete. I had to put my hands over my ears.”

There was a snicker from Ron. The flannel sprang from his eyes and swooped down to pat at his lips. “Ack,” he spat, smacking the flannel into the wall. “Gerroff, you.”

“What about the mirror?” Harry asked. He watched the flannel peel itself from the wall and hover in the air, flapping slightly to stay aloft. In the dim light, it looked like a large pale moth. “Did Dumbledore have anything to say about the mirror?”

“A lot, actually,” said Hermione. Harry saw her eyes go to Ron and even in the wan light, he could see her deflate. “The mirror troubled him a bit,” she said slowly. Her eyes were fixed on Ron and Harry had the impression she was wondering how much she should say in front of him. A cold shiver slipped down his spine. A troubled Dumbledore is never a good thing, he thought, his eyes going to Ron as well.

“Dumbledore said some of the same things you did, Harry,” said Hermione. “That the mirror had been enchanted to find Molly years ago and that the magic is still working. That the enchantment was powerful enough to ensnare an otherwise harmless Siren—”

“Harmless!” Ron squawked, lifting his head from the bed. His voice was incredulous. 

“Harmless?” repeated Harry. “Hermione, did you see the teeth on that thing?” 

“Harmless,” said Hermione firmly. “She was bewitched, obviously. Dumbledore was quite adamant about that. And really Harry, think about it…she was a wild Siren…do you think anything but dark magic would have brought her to the Burrow in the first place? Sirens are known to inhabit craggy rocks and cliffs…their songs cause sailors to shipwreck. They don’t paddle about in garden ponds like ducks, do they?”

“Oh…well, that…” said Harry. He’d never bothered to wonder what had drawn a Siren to a small pond like the Burrow’s. 

Hermione waved him off. “Actually, I didn’t think of it either,” she admitted. “But I should have. Bagshot devoted a whole chapter to the classification of non-human magical creatures that include sirens, selkies, mermaids, nymphs, lorelei, sprites, harpies and—”

“All right, all right,” said Harry, holding up one hand. “Let’s stay on topic. The Siren shouldn’t have been here, black magic brought her, now she’s gone…moving on, what about the mirror?” An image of Sirius, a small mirror flashing in his hand, popped into his head. “It has a twin, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Hermione, nodding. “Dumbledore did say the mirror would have a twin.” Her brow furrowed. “Harry,” she said, “do you remember the story Molly told us about Bill finding the mirror when he was little?”

“Yes, of course,” Harry started, but Ron’s voice cut across his.

“Did Dumbledore say anything about the fucking sky-climbing?” Ron asked. He rose to his elbows, his hair riotously mussed. “Did he say anything about the green-glowing crap? I said gerroff!” The flannel had suddenly dived at him and he knocked it back into the wall with a fierce backhand.

“Oh, that,” said Hermione. Her brow smoothed out and Harry thought she looked relieved. “Yes, he did. He said he could see no logical reason for you to climb or glow.” 

“What?” Ron looked dumbfounded. The flannel flapped above his head, throwing giant bat-like shadows on the wall. “He said what?” 

“Dumbledore can see no reason for you to sky-climb at all,” said Hermione calmly. “He said there was no evidence of climbing among Gerard’s memories. He said there was no evidence of climbing in what he could see of your own memories. He also said he could think of no absolutely no logical reason for the green glow. It just doesn’t fit in.”

Ron goggled at Hermione; she seemed to take pity on him. “Dumbledore did say that you should think hard about sky-climbing and glowing,” she said kindly. “And let him know if you come up with anything. When you feel better, of course.”

Ron gaped. “ME?” he howled. “Me think about it? Dumbledore’s only supposed to be the greatest bleeding mind wizardkind has ev—”

“Ron, shut up,” said Harry sharply. He rose from the camp bed and made for Ron but stopped short of touching him. “And lie down, you git. You’ll bring on another headache and neither Hermione nor I want to be vomited on, right?”

“No logical reason,” Ron moaned. “Bloody hell.” He was already sinking back to the bed, defeated. “Why does Dumbledore have to be so mental?” He dropped his head back to the pillow. The flannel followed him, fluttering gently. It floated down to settle on his face, covering him from forehead to chin.

Hermione was silent for a moment, watching Ron. Her eyes were wary and Harry suspected she thought Ron might vomit from sheer outrage. 

“Urm, no logical reason?” Harry ventured.

“None,” said Hermione. Her eyes left Ron and went past Harry. She seemed to be addressing someone Harry couldn’t see. “He said if no one could think of a reason, it probably wouldn’t happen again.”

“Just as well,” said Harry shrugging. “We have enough to worry about, don’t we?”

Hermione nodded. Her eyes were fixed on Ron again. She sat for a long moment in her place by the door, the hovering candles gleaming copper on her curls. Finally she rose and came to sit next to Harry on the camp bed.

“Harry,” she said in a low voice. “Dumbledore wasn’t bothered by the sky-climbing but he did seem quite concerned about the mirror.”

Harry felt another chill pass over him. There was something in Hermione’s voice he didn’t like. “Concerned?” he asked. “Why?” He had the feeling he wouldn’t like the answer.

“Because someone has the other half, don’t they?” said Hermione, her voice barely above a whisper. “Someone has the mirror’s twin and we don’t know who.”

“Dumbledore has no idea?” asked Harry. He felt the hairs rising on the back of his neck.

“Well of course he has an idea,” said Hermione, her soft whisper sounding both bossy and impatient. “But that’s just it…it’s just an idea and Dumbledore insists that we need to know for sure. He assumes the mirror was part of Gerard’s estate,” she went on, “which passed to Annabelle, of course. But Annabelle died shortly after Gerard and her effects passed to her sister who married a French wizard and lives in Paris.”

“So the other half of the mirror might be somewhere in France?” said Harry.

“Possibly,” said Hermione. “That was more than twenty years ago…for all we know the sister could have died as well.” Her brow suddenly furrowed. “Maybe we can make some use of that silly, shiny pheromone-secreting Fleur after all,” she said, her whisper turning into a hiss.

“What do you mean?” said Harry, taken aback. He thought Hermione was being unnecessarily hard on Fleur. 

“Perhaps she can use her connections in France,” spat Hermione, forgetting to whisper, “to find out what’s become of Annabelle’s sister. If the sister’s husband is still alive, Fleur can just squirt Veela juice at him, can’t she? He’ll hand over the mirror straight away.” Her eyes took on a maniacal gleam. “Let’s pack her back to France, I say. Tout de suite! Immediatement!” 

“Hermione,” said Harry, pained. “Don’t you think the mirror’s just sitting in a cupboard somewhere? Look at Grimauld Place, that mad collection of evil bric-a-brac on shelves and glass cases? Surely Dumbledore doesn’t think anyone’s watching the mirror after all these years, does he?”

Hermione sighed. She turned to Harry, her slightly mad look fading. “Wishful thinking?” she asked gently, putting her hand on Harry’s arm. Her eyes went to Ron’s still form on the bed. “I know if it was my lover—”

“Hermione…” groaned Harry. He put his hand over his face. “I…” He stopped. There was no way to tell Hermione that hearing her talk so openly about his relationship with Ron made him feel slightly ill. As close as he felt to her, he couldn’t bear it. It was all still too new, so intimate and so powerful. Give me time to get used to it, Hermione, he wanted to say. Hearing you say **my lover** makes me feel like you’re touching me in a place no one but Ron should touch me. Or watching me make love to him.

“…I’d want to know…” Hermione was saying. Harry’s eyes went to Ron.

Ron lay still, giving no indication he’d heard any of their discussion about the mirror. Still, and with the flannel over his face—there was something all too shroud-like about the picture. Harry suddenly wanted to snatch the flannel away and poke Ron hard in the ribs. 

“Who knows if someone is watching the mirror,” Hermione was saying. “Who knows what they might have heard in the kitchen that night when you pulled it from Ron’s mouth? No one knows and that’s exactly the point. We really must know…Dumbledore was quite anxious really, when he had the whole story of the mirror.”

Harry tore his eyes away from Ron. He felt like he’d just had a bucket of icy water dumped over his head. The full impact of what Hermione was about to say hit him.

“What if someone was watching the mirror that night?” Hermione said. “What if one of us said something about Ron having Gerard Flint in his head?”

“Uh, what was that last bit?” Ron had propped himself on his elbows. He’d taken the flannel from his face and was looking back and forth between Harry and Hermione.

“Well, think about it, Ron,” said Hermione, briskly, giving up all pretence of whispering, of sheltering Ron from the worst. “What if some Death Eater found out that Voldemort’s old personal potions master had left his thoughts in your head? How safe do you think you’d be then?”

“Oh shit!” whispered Harry, horrified. His stomach flip-flopped.

Ron’s stomach must have too. He jerked himself up right with a violent twist and vomited spectacularly down his front.


	35. Chapter 35

  
Author's notes: _Devout readers please excuse the blatant blasphemy that begins this chapter._  


* * *

On the third day, Fred arose from the kitchen, ascended the stairs to Ron’s bedroom and seated himself at Harry’s right on the camp bed. “I hear ickle Ronniekins has been frowing up,” he said brightly.

There was a groan from the bed. “What’s _he_ doing here?” Ron lifted his head from the pillow and scowled at his brother.

Harry looked warily between Fred and Ron, wand at the ready in case Ron vomited. “Yeah,” he admitted to Fred. “Ron’s been poorly. Migraines and the like...they’ve made him a bit spewy…but he seems to be tapering off.”

“Tapering off?” said Fred, beaming as though he were delighted. “Excellent! Fab timing on my part, if I do say so myself.” He bounced on the camp bed and cracked his knuckles. “Well, all right, then,” he said. “Let’s get on with it.”

“Erm, get on with what?” asked Harry bemused. He exchanged glances with Ron, who had risen to his elbows, looking exasperated. His hair matted after days in bed stuck up in every direction, making him look like an annoyed cockatoo.

“Fred.” Ron sighed and shoved his hair back. “What _are_ you on about?”

Instead of answering, Fred suddenly grimaced. He pinched his nose. “Gah,” he said, his voice nasal. “You do know it reeks in here, don’t you?”

“Yeah?” said Harry. He shrugged and scratched at his scalp, which was beginning to itch. “So what?”

“So what?” Fred said, still holding his nose. He looked at Harry, eyebrows lifted. “Harry, it’s worse than you think. I was going to be a gentleman and not mention it, but holy crap…it smells like six-day-old Stilton in here.” He let go of his nose and fanned his face. “Seriously,” he added, “my eyes are watering.”

“Oh, for shit’s sake.” Ron rolled his eyes and sank back to his pillow. “Did you come here just to wind me up?”

“Actually no,” said Fred. “I’m here on a mission of mercy. But first...whew”—he fanned his face again—“we gotta air this room out. Blimey...I mean, who died?”

“You, if you don’t shut up,” muttered Ron. “I’ve been sick, you stupid git. Now bugger off.”

“I’m not fussy about smells,” said Fred holding his nose again and sounding like he had a bad head cold. “But, honestly, this is a little much. Like the locker room after a sweaty match, only there’s a steaming pile of hippogriff dung in the corner. And mix in a bit of old people odour...remember, Ron, when we had to visit Auntie Muriel when she had nasal gout and infected bogies?” Fred turned to look at Harry. “Infected bogies smell horrid,” he explained helpfully.

“Fred…” Ron shuddered. He rolled to face the wall, his back to his brother.

Harry felt a spark of irritation. “Fred,” he said, crossly. “I just said he was tapering off, right? Don’t go making him queasy again.”

“Easy, Harry,” said Fred, his eyes mischievous. “I’m just talking. Talking’s not going to make him puke...believe me, I know what makes Ron puke...I’ve been his brother for sixteen years.” He looked back at Ron. “Remember Auntie Muriel was on the bedpan? Smelled like a dung bomb had exploded in her room. You’re not on the bedpan, are you, Ron?”

Ron gagged and pulled the sheet over his head.

“Oi, pack it in, Fred,” Harry said sharply. He felt his face flush as his irritation flared into full-on anger. But why shouldn’t he be angry? He’d been in Ron’s bedroom for three days, watching his mate wretch, talking him through sweats and fevers, teasing him out of black moods. He’d been mere feet from his lover without being able to touch him once or replenish his dwindling bond connection. And now that Ron was finally getting better, Fred had shown up to take the piss out of him? Harry didn’t think so. He rose from the camp bed and stood stiffly in front of Fred, his face hot. “I don’t care if you are his brother,” he said. “You have no idea what makes him puke. You haven’t been watching him spill his guts for three days, right? Now whatever it is you’re here for…either get on with it, or get out.” His fingers twitched on his wand.

“Whoa, Harry!” said Fred, glancing at Harry’s wand hand. He let go of his nose and raised his hands in mock surrender. “Don’t hurt me, mate,” he said, looking entirely too amused. “I’m here to help.”

“So help then,” snapped Harry. He spun away from Fred, struggling to get his temper under control. He’d never bat-bogied anyone before but suddenly it seemed like a brilliant idea.

Fred stood up, smirking at Harry. “Charlie said you’d gone all fierce and protective for our Ron,” he said, “but I’m thinking he understated it a bit—”

“Wait!” cried Harry, forgetting to keep his voice down. Fred was reaching for the window handle. “Don’t open the window! Ron’s sensitive to light!”

“Yeah?” For a moment Fred stared at Harry in disbelief. Then he shook his head, sighing. “Harry,” he said, “in the first place it’s dead dark outside. In the second place, when did you turn into Madame Pomfrey? You gits are pathetic.” He turned the window’s handle.

_Pathetic?_ Harry felt a great jolt in his guts as though he’d been punched. His face flooded with heat. “Are you mad?” he yelled, the words tumbling over each other in a rush, his voice growing louder. “I said don’t open the fucking window! The light makes Ron sick!”

Fred glanced at him, frowning. “I said it’s dead dark—”

Pain sliced through Harry’s head, the skin on his face and neck burned. Suddenly he was shouting.

“YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT IT’S BEEN LIKE, YOU STUPID ARSE! RON HASN’T BEEN ABLE TO MOVE! HE HASN’T BEEN ABLE TO EAT…AND IF YOU HAD SEEN THE FUCKING CRAP DUMBLEDORE PULLED OUT OF HIS HEAD YOU’D—” Harry choked. His head throbbed, the skin on his neck and face stung like it had been rubbed with nettles. Something hot and furious rushed through his body.

“OW!” Fred jumped away from the window, shaking one hand as though it burned.

Harry felt like he’d been shoved hard. He fell backwards onto the camp bed, feeling bile rise in his throat.

_“Harry.”_

A voice tugged at him.

Harry rolled to his stomach. Something was wrong. A blinding glob of light stabbed his right eye; nausea flooded his throat. _Ron,_ he thought. _We’ve gone criss-cross._

_“Harry.”_

Harry’s stomach contracted. He pulled himself to the edge of the camp bed and vomited violently over the side.

“Bloody hell, Harry!” Fred burst out.

Harry spat and wiped his mouth. His head spun. There should be freckles on the back of his hand, shouldn’t there? Mandrake based potions were very unstable unless simmered through a full moon. Ginny had an Agrippa card once. He’d begged her for it but she’d traded it for a nest of fairy eggs that never hatched. His right eye sparkled, a shard of stabbing pain. His left eye saw something else, a crisscross network, tangled loops and links. A voice gently nudged him.

“Harry...oi, mate. Dunno what you’re doing…but it’s fucking unpleasant.”

“Ron?”

“Yeah, s’me.” A sigh. “Dumbarse.”

Harry slid back into himself. The pain in his eye shrank, disappeared. For a moment he stared puzzled at the puddle of sick on the floor beneath the camp bed. Then he raised his eyes.

Ron was sitting up in bed, grimacing. One hand cupped his right eye, the heel of the other hand pressed his forehead.

_Oh shit,_ thought Harry.

“That,” said Fred, sounding awestruck, “was seriously fucked up.”

Harry ignored the twin. He felt sick. “I’m sorry, Ron,” he said hopelessly. “Something got tangled up.” He made a loop in the air to show Ron but his hand felt foolish and awkward so he laid it on the bed. On the duvet, palm up, as near as he dared to Ron.

“Forget it,” said Ron quietly. He slumped back against the headboard. “You’re dead knackered, aren’t you? Haven’t had a proper sleep in three days.” He too put his hand on the duvet, palm up, next to Harry’s.

Harry laid his head on the camp bed. Ron’s voice didn’t sound like Ron’s voice. It sounded like Ron’s voice might if he were tender, if he were gentle. Ron’s voice sounded old, as if Ron had grown up too much in the three days he’d been in bed. Harry didn’t like it.

There was a moment of heavy silence. Then Fred spoke. “I’m going to open the window now,” he said carefully. “Everyone all right with that?”

“Yeah,” Ron said.

The window squeaked open, Harry heard Fred murmur a banishing spell. His sick made a soupy slurp as it disappeared. Then warm fresh night smells were rolling into the room. Harry caught the faint tang of juniper and the distant fermenting of last year’s apples. He also smelt himself. _I guess Ron and I are a bit rank,_ he thought. _No baths and Ron heaving himself rotten. Maybe it is worse than I supposed._ He sighed, exhausted. He longed to fold himself around Ron and sleep for a week.

Suddenly Fred’s voice was in his ear. “Harry,” he said softly, “do you really think I don’t know what it’s like when your bond mate is sick?”

Harry looked up.

Fred was crouching next to the camp bed. “Think I don’t know what it’s like when your mate has a fever...is in pain? You were there, right? A few days ago when George had a headache? George gets bloody wicked headaches.”

“S’true,” Ron murmured. “He does.”

Harry turned to look at Ron. He had flopped to his side on the bed. He faced Harry and for a moment he seemed to shine, his skin sparkling. Harry felt his stomach lurch before he realized his mate had broken into a sweat. _I did that,_ Harry thought, _with my ridiculous flailing at Fred...I don’t know how but I’m sure I did it._ There was a sheen on Ron’s cheek, his neck was slick, swirls of hair plastered to his temple and forehead. Harry could see all this, even in the dim light. _We’ve been in the dark so long,_ thought Harry, _I’ve developed owl eyes._

“When your bond mate’s sick...in pain...upset,” Fred was saying, “it can make you batshit crazy…as you just admirably demonstrated, Harry. You burned the hell out of my hand and nearly incinerated Ron’s head.”

“Urm, yeah,” said Harry. “Sorry.”

“Sorry?” said Fred, snorting. “He’s sorry, Ron...how do you like that? Anyway, Harry,” Fred went on, “point is, George gets headaches. Who do you think makes them go away?”

Harry felt his heart thump. He jerked upright. “You mean you can make Ron’s headache go away?” he asked breathlessly, hardly daring to hope.

“I can’t,” said Fred. “But you can.”

* * *

_It’s a relief just to touch him again,_ Harry thought. He was sitting on the edge of Ron’s bed with Ron’s head in his lap. _I don’t care if he does spew on me._

Fred, kneeling in front of Harry, seemed to read his thoughts. “Don’t worry,” he said, his brow furrowing as he positioned Harry’s fingertips on Ron’s temples. “If he heaves, I’m by his head, I’ll get the worst of it, right? Here, now”—Fred’s fingers guided Harry’s—“feel these ridges, here...on either side? You want to rub these ridges in a circular motion…just stroke at first…very light pressure...be careful to stay out of the hollows.”

Harry laid his fingers gently against Ron’s temples, quickly finding the ridges, the tender hollows. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes. He let his fingers move. Ron’s skin was hot, Harry’s fingers skated over sweat.

“That’s good,” said Fred, his voice low in Harry’s ear. “Good man.”

Harry hardly heard him, his attention had been completely redirected…just being able to touch Ron, something let go in him. _Ridges…circular motions,_ he thought. His fingers traced light Os.

“Lovely,” said Fred. “Now slide your fingers through his hair...that’s it...go on...toward the back of his head. Give it a bit more pressure now...good huh, Ronnie?”

Ron murmured something Harry didn’t hear. Harry was listening to a ticking in his own head, a ticking, clicking and whirring, the sound of springs and gears, things wound tight letting go. He ran his fingers through Ron’s hair, which crackled with drying sweat. Ron’s head was heavy in his lap, wonderfully heavy on his thigh. Harry’s fingers moved in Os until the Os smoothly turned themselves into figure eights. The eights warmed the pain, Harry found, melted it like ice. On the lids of his closed eyes, something moved, dark and liquid, like the ocean going in and out.

Ron gave a sigh. “Fuck, s’brilliant...why didn’t we do this sooner?”

“Couldn’t,” came Fred’s answer. “You weren’t ready...would have soaked us in spew...you have to catch these headaches before they set in properly...or when they’re finishing up. Know what, Ron?”

Fred’s voice was fading. It sounded scratchy to Harry, like static on a poorly tuned wireless.

“...yeah, honestly, merbloke in the pond today...searching for the Siren...echo-location, didn’t know that, did you? She’s gone...yeah, like she was never there...nothing in the pond but crap, old bicycle tyres, a car fender...”

Harry floated. The now familiar sense of contentment curled around him, light as smoke. He felt their connection, he could nearly see it, the net that strung between them, going back and forth in links and loops. He stroked Ron’s hair, his own scalp prickled with pleasure. Knowing Ron would like it, Harry gathered up fistfuls of hair, tugged gently, let it slide through his fingers. It wasn’t exactly clean, Ron’s hair, but it was still the most wonderful hair in the world.

Fred’s voice came from miles away.

“...it’s strong bond magic, little bro...very strong, gotta admit that...as much as I hate to…but it’s wonky as hell, probably dangerous...you two need to sort yourselves out...before you give each other brain damage or burn the Burrow down...better come to our flat...we can teach you a trick or two.”

Fred’s voice seemed to turn a corner, disappear. Harry rubbed Ron’s temples. From the temples, it was a short trip over to the lovely planes of Ron’s face. Harry stroked a line across one cheek down to Ron’s jaw. He could feel sweat dried in salty patterns. Ron’s skin had been so fevered, it had burned; Harry had felt prickles in his own face and neck. He slid his hand under Ron’s head, cupped his neck. Then, with his eyes closed, he saw it—one last shadow of pain behind Ron’s right eye. He leaned close, kissed Ron’s eyelid, felt Ron’s strong magic flick like a fish against his lips. Time sank and spun, collapsed, expanded and stopped.

Sometime later Harry opened his eyes. A bright slice of moon shone through the window, colouring everything pale in the room a blue grey. Fred had gone, Harry didn’t know how long ago. The door was open. Ron’s head was in Harry’s lap, his hair fanned out over Harry’s thigh. His eyes were open. “All right?” Harry asked.

“Brilliant.” Ron grinned and sat up. He stretched, then with a fluid movement, slipped easily into Harry’s arms. _He fits so nicely,_ Harry thought, feeling his shoulder slide into place under Ron’s arm. We _fit._ Ron’s arms loosely clasped his hips. His chin hung over Harry’s shoulder. Harry ran his hands over Ron’s back. Ron was humming low in his throat.

“What are you singing?” whispered Harry. He slid his hands up Ron’s shirt, fingers gliding over Ron’s bare skin, his spine.

“Don’t be daft,” Ron whispered back. “’M not singing. Come on.” He pulled Harry to his feet without letting go of him. “Let’s take this off, right?” he whispered, lifting the hem of Harry’s t-shirt.

Harry raised his arms to allow Ron to strip off his t-shirt, catching his glasses as they tried to come off his face. He had been tired a moment ago, hadn’t he? Now he felt something leap through him. His nipples peaked, growing hard. He opened his stance, shifting his legs to give his cock more room in his jeans.

Ron threw Harry’s shirt to the bed, stripped his own off, tossed it on top of Harry’s. The moonlight fell on his naked chest, his arms, turning them blue-grey. On his forearms, his biceps, the scars he’d given himself were a darker pewter.

Harry felt himself flush. It had been three days, he was starved, dwindling to nothing without Ron’s warm skin against his. He reached out, hooked a finger in Ron’s jeans and tugged. Ron, surprised, staggered. He bumped into Harry, knocking him against the wall. Harry laughed. With the wall at his back for leverage, he seized Ron by the hipbones and pulled him close, fitting their groins together like puzzle pieces.

“Oi.” Ron looked down at him, amused. He’d caught himself on the wall. His hands were on the wall above Harry’s head. With Ron’s long arms bowing over him, Harry felt a bit like he was under an arching bridge.

“Oi, yourself,” he said. “Now touch me.” He tugged at Ron’s hips again, grinding their groins together.

Ron laughed. He cocked his head, looking down at Harry. Those long ropey muscles in his arms, the way they curved above Harry’s head, finishing with those big square hands made Harry’s heart seize. He loved Ron’s hands, wanted them here and there and all over his body. He reached up, snatched Ron’s right wrist, placed his palm against his side, just where it angled away from his hip. There skin was suddenly sensitive, shot through with readiness.

Ron chuckled. He grinned, his mouth stretching wide. He seemed happy just to be upright and out of bed; he hadn’t yet caught Harry’s fire. That thought unexpectedly excited Harry; suddenly he relished the challenge of turning his mate on. Tilting his hips, he rubbed himself up into Ron’s groin, rocking. He put one hand on Ron’s chest, letting his thumb roll the right nipple, which pebbled up immediately for him. Pleased, Harry stretched up, licked the side of Ron’s throat. “Salty,” he said.

“You like nipples, don’t you?” said Ron, amused. He grabbed Harry by the hips, lifting him without warning into the air and onto the saddle of his tilted pelvis. Harry let the wall bear his weight. He wrapped his legs around Ron, settling down on his mate’s hips and locking his legs. He pushed his back against the wall. Ron lurched a bit. He leaned into Harry to steady himself. His hot weight against Harry’s cock made Harry squirm.

“I like nipples too,” said Ron. His eyebrow arched, turning his grin predatory. “As long as they’re yours.” He pinched one of Harry’s nipples sharply, dipped his head and licked the other lovingly. His hands slid around to grip Harry’s backside, cupping and squeezing.

Harry groaned. He felt himself unwinding, unlocking. There was something about Ron that went straight to his dick, something that made him want to howl like an animal, scratch, bite, love and claw. He wanted to fling himself against Ron, to hear Ron moan and push back until all the muscles in his body rippled and strained. He wanted Ron snatch his wrists in one paw, to hold his hands in a knot above his head and tease him until he screamed. Harry’s hips bucked; he was already close to orgasm.

It was a shock then, when Ron gave his buttocks a last squeeze and backed away, holding Harry up by the armpits until Harry’s feet found the floor again.

Harry’s eyes snapped opened wide. “Whatter you doing?” he asked stunned. “You’re not stopping?” His voice rose, incredulous.

Ron looked at him equally incredulous. “Are you mental?” he asked, raising his arm and snuffing at his own armpit. “You heard Fred. I smell like Limburger...or a Stilton. C’mon. Let’s go take a shower.”

Harry limped out of the door after him. They left the window, the bedroom door open. Air washed into Ron’s small bedroom, pushing out the smells of sweat and sickroom.

In the bathroom, Harry watched Ron brush his teeth so furiously he was sure his mate would damage the enamel. Then he took at turn with the toothbrush, angling so he could watch as Ron stripped off completely. His eyes travelled over Ron’s back, it was familiar country now but after three days Harry felt like he was seeing it anew. And it was different, even while it was the same. There were red marks high on the back where Harry’s hands had been; lower down Ron’s jeans had pressed creases and lines into the pale flesh. Ron’s arse managed to bony and meaty at once and when he turned sideways, Harry saw he was fully, impressively, erect. His long dick curved up toward his belly, bobbing under its own weight.

“Hot water, please,” Ron said, his face turned up to the shower-head.

“Oh my, yes,” said the shower. “A bit over-due, aren’t you, love?”

“A shave might be nice, too,” suggested the mirror. “I see a bit of ginger fuzz there, dear.”

Ron ignored the shower and the mirror. He rounded on Harry, seizing Harry by the shoulder so suddenly that Harry dropped the toothbrush in surprise. With abrupt movements, Ron unzipped and stripped Harry of his jeans. For a moment, Harry had a flashing image of Bill in the attic, his strong freckled hands moving quickly and roughly as he stripped him. In the next moment, the image was gone. Ron removed Harry’s glasses, placed them on the sink. The bathroom was filling up with steam, the mirror fogged and they stepped under the stream of hot water. Ron folded his arms around Harry, pressing him so tightly to his chest the water, falling on them, divided. Ron bent his head. “Grab my prick,” he growled in Harry’s ear before kissing him hard.

Harry jammed his hands between their bodies, fumbling for Ron’s cock. He wrapped both hands around it, one fist on top of the other. The bell-shaped head was hot in his hands; Ron’s blood jumped beneath his fingers. Ron kissed him, folding over him, holding him upright with one arm around his back, the other hand squeezing his buttock. The water roared, the room was white with steam.

“All right?” Ron grunted as he let go of Harry’s arse to grab his cock. Harry didn’t bother to answer. He seized a fistful of Ron’s hair, feeling it soften in the water. Ripe smells of body, sweat rolled up with the steam. Harry tugged Ron’s hair, bringing him back down into the hard kiss.

Ron pumped Harry’s cock, his tongue locked against Harry’s, his mouth harsh with toothpaste. He reached behind Harry, groping at something. In a moment, Harry felt the chill plastic of a shampoo bottle nudge his side. He felt a thick stream of shampoo flowing over his belly, hands and cock, cool but warming quickly.

Ron tossed away the bottle, taking Harry’s cock in one large hand. Harry could feel Ron’s bumpy knuckles, his slippery grip sliding up, squeezing, releasing. Harry’s arse clenched, he let Ron’s strong arm keep him on his feet as he leaned into Ron. His hips twisted, he pushed his tongue deeper into Ron’s mouth, rutting urgently into Ron’s hand. Three days without, and it only took a moment now. Harry felt his climax gathering in his balls, he shoved into Ron’s hand so hard he forced Ron back a step. It was building, gathering, his orgasm. It strained against some thin but resistant membrane that held it in high tension, finally bursting through. Harry felt the ejaculate leave him like some long white string curling out of his sac and propelling itself knot by exquisite knot out the head of his dick. His knees buckled.

Ron’s buckled too. For a moment, Harry thought Ron was coming as well but it turned out he was going. Going down on his knees on the floor of the tub. “What’s wrong?” Harry cried alarmed. He followed Ron down.

“S’nothing,” Ron gasped. “M’fine...just a little light-headed. To be expected, you know...hot water...days in bed...no food.”

His knees bumping, Harry scrambled behind Ron. He got his legs on either side of Ron’s lean body and bent him forward so his head was down. Ron resisted for a moment, not understanding what Harry was after, then he submitted, giving in to his own dizziness.

“Head between your legs,” said Harry. Ron yielded, let Harry fold him over. The water felt sharper in the bottom on the tub, the thick flow broken into pelting spears. It needled Harry’s back as he leaned over Ron.

“I’m all right.” Ron finally objected, pushing back.

Harry held him there a moment longer, squeezing hard with his arms and legs to let Ron know he wasn’t letting go. Again Ron yielded, allowing Harry to pull him back against his chest, hold him as he leant against the round wall of the tub. Ron’s head thudded against Harry’s sharp clavicle. They both relaxed, letting their legs open and sprawl as the warm water continue to fall on their faces, shoulders, bellies. Ron’s weight against Harry’s groin made Harry’s whole body throb agreeably.

“Did you hear Fred?” Ron asked after a while. “The merbloke in the pond...Siren gone?”

“Mmm-hmm...” said Harry. In the warm water with Ron, he found he didn’t much feel like thinking about the cold water and the Siren. The shampoo bottle, floating on the collecting water, bumped against his foot. He pulled it to him and squeezed a glob of it into Ron’s hair.

“Fuck,” Ron groaned as Harry worked the shampoo into his hair. “That is so fuckin’ brilliant.” He sunk lower on Harry’s chest. “You’re a wizard at that, you are.”

“Ha ha,” said Harry, concentrating, his fingers digging into Ron’s scalp, his knees coming up on either side of Ron. The warm water flowed all around them, suds streamed from Ron’s hair, down his lean front. Harry took a handful of shampoo and rubbed it against Ron’s belly, making a lather, which flowed down to collect between Ron’s legs. Harry spilled more shampoo, over Ron’s thighs, over his dick, he scratched Ron’s pubic hair, watching with a mixture of pride and amusement as Ron’s cock responded, swelling and lifting. Harry massaged Ron’s thighs, then moved to his cock. He took his time there, letting one hand ride Ron’s cock with slow sliding squeezes while the other gently held Ron’s testicles. He could feel Ron’s relaxed body tighten, his hips roll.

The warm water fell; Harry let one hand slide up to pluck Ron’s nipples, first one then the other. He laughed at Ron’s moans. “You’re right,” he said into Ron’s ear. “I do like nipples.” He took Ron’s chin then, pulled Ron’s head around for a long slow kiss. He could taste Ron now, to his delight, the shower had washed out most of the toothpaste tang. He brushed his tongue over Ron’s wonderful lips. He felt Ron’s arse cheeks clench. He broke his kiss, stacked both hands on Ron’s cock, fisting loosely. His thoughts tumbled ahead of him: He would wring a slow climbing building binding orgasm out of Ron, then they would lie limp under the pelting spray for a while longer until they were washed clean, fresh, pink-skinned from the heat. Then they would collect themselves and climb out of the tub, steadying each other like old people gentle with each other’s bodies and go back to the bedroom in their skins while the clothes they’d been wearing for three days lay on the floor for someone else to pick up. Ron’s bedroom would be fresh with night air and they would find that Fred had done them right. He would had have soup, sandwiches and juice sent up to the bedroom, it would be waiting for them on trays and they would eat wearily and gladly before climbing back into bed naked. They would turn to each other pressing their bare selves together, thigh to thigh, belly to belly, cocks folded back into their own nests of hair and flesh but nudged together in a friendly way. Or perhaps Harry would prop up on one elbow and watch Ron relax into sleep. He’d finger-comb Ron’s hair and watch his eyes move under the lids in dreams that were finally peaceful and full of no one’s thoughts but his own. He’d arrange Ron’s body on the bed before laying himself down on his mate, his head pillowed on Ron’s hard shoulder.

In the bath, the water roared. Ron’s arse clenched, rose from the tub floor. His head rocked back on Harry’s shoulder. Harry squeezed with both hands, feeling his mate going up and up and up. For a split second he hung in the shivering moment before orgasm and Harry wished from his heart he could keep him there forever.


End file.
